The Visitor
by Portwenn Hydra
Summary: A post series 5 adventure for Martin and Louisa. A visitor arrives...
1. Chapter 1

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter One**

It had been a long day, and I had a hundred things on my mind as I tidied up the consulting room. The missing lab report on Mr. Sturgis's biopsy, the worrying call I had received from Matthew Thatcher this morning, whether there were any more tongue depressors in the cupboard, would I have a chance this weekend to have the oil changed in the car, what to buy Louisa for her birthday next week, did we have any more couscous, and how to keep James Henry from crawling up the staircase. While I pondered the myriad of niggling little issues crowding my brain, I put my supplies away, filled out another lab request form, and took some patient notes out to the file cabinet beside Morwenna's desk.

When my filing was done, and I had left a note for Morwenna about ordering more latex gloves from the chemist, I made my nightly rounds switching off the lights and making sure all was in readiness for the next day's surgery. I stopped for a moment to straighten the photo of Louisa and James that now sat on the shelf behind my desk and to wipe the fingerprints off with my handkerchief. I felt myself smiling, briefly, thinking about how much better my life was these days having Louisa and James Henry here under my roof.

I glanced at the clock on the mantle in the consulting room – I was surprised to find that it was nearly six. Time to get supper started, I supposed. Louisa had promised she and James would be back from their mysterious expedition to Truro by six-thirty and I wanted to have the meal on the table when they arrived to avoid going to sleep on a full stomach. Louisa still teased me mercilessly about what she called my "carbohydrate curfew" but eating early and putting James down to sleep right after gave Louisa and me some time together in the evening, time that I had come to treasure.

As I checked to make sure the practice computer had been shut down properly, I saw that Morwenna had set our personal post aside when she opened the letters addressed to the surgery. There were a couple of bills, a letter obviously from Louisa's father on Dartmoor Prison stationery, a square ivory envelope that looked ominously like a formal invitation, and a long white envelope for me with a London postmark and no return address. I picked these up along with the latest issue of Lancet to peruse after supper, and was ready to close up for the night when I heard a loud knock on the front door.

As it was well after closing, I was tempted to ignore it and hope that whoever was out there would go away. Instead, the knocking persisted and with a resigned sigh that came from knowing I was the only doctor in this village and that the person on the other side might indeed have a legitimate medical emergency, I crossed the empty waiting room and switched on a light. When I opened the front door, it was all I could do to keep my jaw from dropping in surprise. I could hardly believe what my eyes were telling me because the woman standing in front of me was the last person I ever would have expected to see on my doorstep.

"Pay the taxi man, won't you, Martin?" my mother said, in her own inimitable way as I stood there, speechless, gawping at her.

This spurred me to look away from her, to see the hapless Tommy of Tommy's Taxis hoisting two enormous cases out of the boot of the car parked on the road in front of my house. Obedience, at least to her, had been ingrained in me since babyhood, and I was incapable of dismissing, or even questioning, her direction.

"Hiya, Doc," said Tommy, as I approached him. "How's it hanging?"

"How much?" I said, ignoring his greeting, still frantically trying to process what it meant that my mother was here.

"Sixteen quid," he replied. He looked at me with beady eyes as I opened my wallet and pulled out the appropriate notes. He shoved them in his pocket and put his hand out again. "Aren't you forgettin' something?"

I looked at him with some disgust, seeing his smirking face and his hopeful eyes. "I suppose you want a tip."

"That's the general idea, Doc," he said brightly.

"I don't recall receiving one from you last summer when I saved your life, not to mention your wife's, from your idiotic bio-fuel scheme. I guess that makes us even." I turned on my heel and lugged Mum's cases up to the front door, leaving Tommy sputtering in my wake.

She had already entered the surgery and was standing in the middle of the waiting area, her nose turned up as if she'd smelled something foul. I set the bags down heavily and stared at her. She was pale; no Iberian suntan for this English rose. And Mum was a rose – lovely to look at perhaps but prickly with thorns that would leave you bleeding. She looked worn, or maybe just older. Well that shouldn't be surprising; she'd be seventy-one in August. As a physician, I couldn't help wonder if there was a medical cause for her pallor and evident malaise but diagnosing her would have to wait until I could perform a thorough examination.

I said nothing as I watched her remove her navy belted coat and the red silk scarf that framed her face and set them on the chair. As I stood there, observing, I couldn't help recalling the pain of our last encounter. I had with great effort put those feelings behind me when she and Dad had left Portwenn, or so I'd thought. But merely seeing her stand there, in my surgery, caused all the bitterness, shame, despair and hurt to bubble back to the surface from whatever place in my soul in which I had been able, at least for a time, to lock them away. And though I now stood six foot three in my stocking feet and had left home nearly forty years ago when I was sent away to school, I was somehow, still, at the core, the same thumb-sucking, bedwetting, bullied boy of my childhood, the one she'd evidently despised so completely despite my endless, desperate yearning to please her.

I was wary now, taken completely off guard by her sudden appearance, without warning of any kind. I had no idea what to expect, except not to get my hopes up. Not that I had any particular hope to get up.

"So," I said. I was never a sparkling conversationalist, and I was still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that she was here.

"Martin," she replied, without a trace of affection.

"Er, come through this way," I suggested, ushering her into the consulting room and seating myself behind my desk. Here I felt a little bit more in control, ensconced in my usual place of authority. This was my house and my surgery and my consulting room and I tried to remind myself that this place was mine to command.

I took a deep breath. "Take a seat."

She glanced briefly around the consulting room before sitting gracefully on one of the chairs facing my desk. She still said nothing and her face was blank and revealed nothing.

"So," I said again. "What brings you to Cornwall?"

"You, of course," she said. "Heaven knows there's no other reason to drag one's self out here to the back of beyond."

"I see. It has been quite some time, years in fact, since you were here last. And I hadn't heard from you ... I didn't know to expect you." I hated the pathetic tentativeness that crept into my voice as I said this. Put some steel in your spine, man, I told myself, and then mentally recoiled, realizing those were my father's words, his familiar exhortation.

She shifted in her chair and looked into the distance. "It was a sudden decision."

"No time for a letter, or a call?"

She did not reply, so I pressed on. "The divorce; it's final, then?"

"Yes. Did you hear about it from your father?"

"No. Not from him. Joan. He must have spoken to her."

"And how is Joan?" she said venomously. "Chickens laying?" She pursed her lips.

I swallowed hard. "Dead. Joan is dead. Last July."

A ghost of a smile passed over her lips. "I see. Well despite your, shall we say, reduced circumstances, you've ended up sitting pretty."

"What do you mean?" Not that I expected any great outpouring of grief, but this reaction to the tragic news of Joan's death was weird even for Mum.

"Well that was quite a property Joan had. You've inherited a pretty penny."

"It's not like that," I protested.

"Don't tell me you're going to keep it? You? A farmer? That would be something to see."

"No, of course not. But I didn't inherit. She left the farm to Ruth."

"Ruth! An even less likely candidate for a farmer, I must say. Whatever must she have been thinking?"

I was fairly certain now she had not come to tell me she had been wrong and to mend our fractured relationship. This was not a trip for reconciliation. I took a deep breath, trying to keep the angry words crowding my brain from exploding out of my mouth.

"Mummy. Mum, why are you here? In the last decade, you've been to visit only once and then you scarcely spoke to anyone. Now you show up again out of the blue after more than three years without so much as an email. I think I have a right to know why you came."

She looked at me and sighed again. She looked away, far away, as though in her mind she was in another country altogether. Finally she spoke. "I've lost everything."

"What?" I was shocked. This was not at all what I expected. "But the villa. Surely you have that, don't you? Isn't that what you kept in the divorce?"

"Martin, the economy in Portugal has been terrible. Housing prices in the Algarve were plummeting and I was advised, by my friend, Armando da Silva is his name, to sell the villa, while it was still possible to sell. I didn't get back what we spent on the place but I did get some money." She looked down at her hands, twisting them in her lap.

"What happened to it?" I asked, already imagining the unctuous Portuguese lover with some disgust. 

She hesitated again, fisting her hands unattractively in her skirt – an obvious sign of distress in a woman as fastidious as Mum. "I gave the money to Armando to invest. He was sure he knew exactly how to preserve it for us. And since I don't speak Portuguese, it was easier to leave it to him. Easier but perhaps not wise. He . . . he lost it all. Nothing left. I had to sell my jewelry to buy my plane ticket back to England." There was an unfamiliar note of desperation in her voice.

"I see." I could just picture some smarmy Latin lothario preying on her vanity whilst making off with her nest egg. It made me physically sick.

"I had nowhere else to turn but to you. And what is the point exactly of having a son who is a doctor if he can't provide for me in my golden years." She sounded like a martyr rather than a supplicant.

"What are you expecting, then?" I folded my hands on the desktop and looked at her with what I hoped was some gravity.

"Martin, I need money. A regular remittance. Enough to live somewhere warm. Just a little place, somewhere cheap. I'll get out of your hair if you can do that for me."

"But you can't expect . . . I mean, that isn't realistic." My mind was racing. Never could I have anticipated this. I had already bailed my Dad out to save Joan's farm. I'd never expected to have to take on Mum's support as well.

"Just think about it, about the fact that I have no one else to turn to." she said, with an ominous air of finality. "I'm tired, Martin." Her voice was resigned. "Take my cases up to your room, won't you? I will have a lie down and we can talk about this in more detail later."

"That's not possible. . ." I sputtered. The house was stretched to the limit with Louisa and James Henry and I living here plus the surgery too. Where on Earth would we put her?

She sighed heavily and looked away. "Well if it is such an inconvenience, I suppose I could stay in your spare room. Surely you can't deny me that."

"But you don't understand. There's not just me to consider, now; there's also Louisa and James."

"Louisa and James?" She sounded puzzled at first, but before I could explain, she reached some conclusion of her own. "So it's come to this, has it, Martin? How far the mighty have fallen!"

"What do you mean?"

"It was bad enough you gave up your surgical practice, your place in London, and exiled yourself to this . . . this ridiculous little backwater, but now you've stooped to taking in lodgers!"

**To be continued . . .**


	2. Chapter 2

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter Two**

"**Lodgers? Louisa and James aren't lodgers, Mum, they're . . . ."**

"**Oh, Martin, I certainly hope you haven't taken in vagabonds who are paying you nothing. You're father was right. You've never had any financial nous."**

**Sighing she continued: "If I'm not to have a lie down, bring me tea. Biscuits and a bit of cheese as well. The flight from London was ghastly and the drive across the moors very unsettling. That village chap nattered on so. Tea will do, Martin."**

**With only a nod, he retreated to the kitchen. Each niggling thought from minutes ago was forgotten as Martin tried to comprehend what it meant for his mother to be in Port Wenn, here at the surgery, his home with Louisa and James. Louisa! He must phone her. He could not expose her and James to his mother's mean tongue and scathing judgments. **

**He quickly pressed Louisa's number on his mobile. If she were to be home at half six, she should be near Aunt Ruth's farm by now. He will have her wait there until he can sort out Mum. Get her to the Port Wenn Hotel, even the pub if need be, but certainly not with them. **

**Bugger! No response from Louisa's phone, not even the answerphone. It could be she had a late start from Truro and was driving through a black spot on the moor. ****Or she may have switched off her mobile allowing James to sleep. Poor little tot had been teething, and Louisa may be driving about, letting the car's motion lull him to sleep.**

**Louisa was also tired of late and had exhibited flu-like symptoms in the last few weeks. Nothing serious, only a bit under the weather. He would insist she either allow him to check her blood count or see the Wadebridge GP. Between James and her demanding post as head teacher, his mother was the last thing Louisa needed. **

**In the kitchen he switched on the kettle, and removed cheese and apples from the fridge. Waiting for the kettle to boil, he returned to the reception area and took up the mail. No need to engage his mother in more conversation than necessary. Having tea with her would be quite enough.**

**He put aside the bills and letters and carefully opened the square ivory envelope. Removing a stiff, printed card, he had to read the contents twice. Really, now, how could they have possibly done this? Unbelievable! Before he could absorb this news, the kettle whistled and he hurried to the kitchen. **

**Warming the pot first, he added tea and hot water, allowing it to steep. Several issues now presented themselves. If Mum truly were indigent, he would have to support her. Certainly, he did not want her with Louisa and James. It had taken them so long to create a life together, and Mum's poisonous tongue would undo it all in minutes. Louisa would not stand for it, particularly if it concerned James. No, Mum and Louisa were not to meet. Nothing good would come of it. **

**This morning's call from Matthew Thatcher, his London banker, reminded Martin of his strained finances. The funds from selling the Kensington flat had not been enough to pay for Dad's share of Havenhurst Farm. Martin had taken a note for 20,000 pounds, and it was due in three months. The money he put aside to retire the note had been used to pay Joan's debt on the farm, so that it might pass unencumbered to Aunt Ruth. **

**Then there was the matter of his two year lease for the London flat. The estate agent had only now found a tenant, and he had been obligated to pay the monthly rent of 2,500 pounds for the last five months. Potential tenants were put off by the "Arctic White"colour he selected, and a tenant was secured only after he spent another 2,000 pounds having it re-painted in "Apricot Whimsy," the colour Louisa originally suggested. **

**A private insurance plan for James added to his costs and limited his savings for the larger home they hoped to purchase soon. He also paid the household expenses, including the note for the surgery held by the estate of the late Jim Sims.**

**It seemed a small sum at the time, but his father needed the 700 pounds Martin remitted to him each month to supplement his small Navy pension. This was the only money he had after losing his retirement savings in the golf club fiasco. Proceeds from Joan's farm paid off the last of Dad's debts, including the mortgage on the Algarve villa Mum unwisely sold. **

**How much would his mother want for this "small place in a warm location?" He could not imagine getting by on less than 1,500 pounds a month even in Portugal. She certainly could not stay in Port Wenn or with Ruth. He would not inflict her on either the village or his aunt.**

**If he had taken the post at Imperial, his income would have been more than enough to live well in London and support Mum and Dad. His GP salary whilst good, was not sufficient to provide for two parents living in two places as well as Louisa and James. Should he re-consider the post at Imperial? **

**Louisa would object, but he did not want her to continue working because his Mum needed money. Half of her salary was going to the nanny for James, and the other half was used for things she and James needed. The rent from White Rose Cottage covered the mortgage and maintenance but little else. Louisa wanted her father to live in the cottage when released from prison. Now that may not be possible. **

**Of course, he had considerable funds from his time as a surgeon in London, but they were being held for his own retirement. He hesitated tapping into the investments as they would be needed in a short 20 years to cover his family's living expenses. James would still be in university, and if there were another child, he would likely be in secondary school.**

**For the first time in his life, Martin felt financially pinched with the obvious need to provide for his mother. She truly had no one else to turn to, including his father, who had made one foolish decision after another.**

**Martin's worrisome thoughts were interrupted as Mum called: "Martin, the tea. Surely, you haven't forgotten." **

**Checking the tea, it had steeped to a dark color. This would never do for Mummy. Before diluting the pot, he tried Louisa again. Ah, good, he received the answerphone and left a message: "Uh, Louisa, it's me. Martin. I'd rather you not return home. Nothing serious. Please either go to Aunt Ruth's or the Fenns and phone me when you've arrived. I'll explain everything." **

**Pouring out half the tea, he filled the pot with the remaining water from the kettle and placed it on a tray with a jug of milk and cups. He quickly sliced an apple, and arranged it on a plate with the cheese and biscuits. As he lifted the tray, his mother appeared in the kitchen. **

"**Well that certainly took long enough," she complained. "I should think you'd have an easy time in the kitchen doing for yourself these many years. It's not as if you had a wife to prepare your meals. It's a pity you can't manage something as simple as tea on your own."**

**She took a chair at the table and commanded: "Milk, no sugar, Martin." **

**His hand shook slightly as he poured tea into a cup and added milk. Handing it to her, he said: "I've brought an apple with the cheese and biscuits, Mummy."**

**Sneering, she said: "Humble food for my son, the humble GP in the humble backwater of Port Wenn. Good Lord, I'm only thankful my family never saw what's become of you. Your father's family has more than its share of people like you. My family would be horrified." **

**Swallowing her belittling comments, he began: "Mum, this Fernando De Sota."**

"**DaSilva, Martin. Armando DaSilva. What of him?"**

"**Um, are you certain he invested the money for you. Were there any papers he gave you? If there were investments, they might have some value when the Portuguese economy stabilizes in a few years. They might bring you something. A bit of a return."**

"**No, I have nothing. If you must know, it was a private investment. To a friend of Armando's. Something to do with the East Timorese guerillas. You know East Timor was a Portuguese colony, and there is a bit of an issue there with the rebels. It may be that the money was used for munitions, something of that sort. I'm not quite certain. I only understood that I was to double my investment. That, of course, did not happen. Now, Martin, as I said, I will need a remittance from you."**

"**Have you talked with Dad? Is there anything he can do for you?"**

"**I've just seen your father in London. He has nothing but that tatty flat in Chelsea and a tiny Navy pension."**

"**Dad has a flat in Chelsea? I thought he was living at his club."**

**Laughing bitterly, Mum said: "Yes, you wouldn't know of the flat. It's where he kept his women, his mistresses. Elsa, the last one, died a year or so ago. Had a devil of a time getting the flat from her daughter. She insisted your father had given it to Elsa for – well – services rendered. Of course, she could produce nothing showing ownership, so Christopher is living there. Lovely square facing a park, but the flat needs redecorating. Of course, the woman had horrid taste."**

**Horrid taste, indeed! His father had a mistress – in fact, mistresses – and Mum was concerned only with decorating. More to the point, any flat in Chelsea had to be worth at least 500,000 pounds. **

**Responding in kind, he asked: "If Dad owns the flat, could he sell it? Perhaps raise some money for the two of you?"**

"**No, he wants to stay there. It seems he and the daughter now get on well, and she lives nearby with her family. It's unbelieveable to me, but Christopher said he enjoys her children. Probably the closest he'll ever have to grandchildren."**

**Martin was speechless on hearing his mother's revelation of the mistress and her daughter, but she seemed not to care a wit. As if this news were not troublesome enough, Martin saw a figure moving past the kitchen window carrying something heavy. Oh, no, he could not have this. He moved quickly to the kitchen door, ready to step outside. **

**To be continued. . . . **


	3. Chapter 3

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter Three**

Aunt Ruth pushed her way backwards through the kitchen door, carrying a big cardboard box in her arms.

"Martin, I've found some more old photo albums that I thought Louisa might like…" she started to explain, before stopping dead in her tracks as she caught sight of who was sitting in my kitchen.

"Margaret! What on earth are you doing here?" she asked in astonishment. "I thought you said you were never going to return to this 'ghastly, dreary, cold' country?"

Ruth stood staring at my mother, seemingly unable to believe her eyes. I knew that Joan had told her sister all about the catastrophic falling out she'd had with my parents, and that in any case Ruth had never been a great fan of my Mother in the first place.

"Ruth. I hear you're the fortunate one that inherited Joan's place. Seems she wasn't so fond of Martin after all, despite all her attempts to interfere and meddle in his upbringing, which of course was to blame for him being such a needy and difficult child."

"Now look here mum, I really don't think…" I tried to defend Joan, but Ruth interrupted me as she now flung the box she was holding down onto the table and turned to face Margaret, hands on her hips.

"So what are you here for? Let me see, it must be to do with money, because there is no other possible explanation as to why you'd turn up out of the blue like this. Certainly wouldn't be motherly love calling you back into the bosom of your family would it?"

I saw my mother flinch just slightly, but she remained poised and elegant as she delicately brushed an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt.

"The recession, the downfall in the Portuguese economy, has led to an unfortunate change in my circumstances, and naturally I knew Martin wouldn't want me to live in poverty and squalor," mum explained with a weary sigh.

"What about your villa? And your toyboy Portuguese lover? Joan told me all about it you know," Ruth demanded to know.

"As I said. My circumstances have changed," mum snapped at Ruth.

"I see, let me guess, this boyfriend has fleeced you and then dumped you, that's right isn't it? And now you're expecting Martin to bail you out," Ruth deduced quite correctly.

"It really is none of your business Ruth. This is between my son and me."

"Oh so _now_ you remember you have a son, the one that you haven't even spoken to in goodness only knows how many years? You don't even know that you have a …"

"Aunt Ruth! Not now, _please_!" I implored her, not wanting her to bring Louisa and James into this. At that moment my mobile rang, and as I pulled it out of my pocket, I saw that it was Louisa calling, no doubt wanting to know the meaning of the message I'd left.

"Louisa, I really can't talk now…" I tried to say, but Louisa was having none of it.

"What's going on Martin? Why can't we just come home? Ruth is out, so I can't wait at Havenhurst, and I really don't want to bother the Fenns without good reason. I'm tired, James is tired and I just want to get him home so that he can have his tea and get to bed," she insisted.

"Have you been overdoing it? Are you feeling unwell again?" I asked, as pangs of worry about her recent health confirmed my feeling that it really wouldn't be a good idea to put her through the stress of meeting my mother.

"I'm fine Martin, I just need to get home. And I was really looking forward to telling you why I went to Truro today and now you're spoiling it, so I think I deserve some sort of an explanation about what's going on," she insisted, sounding more than a little peeved.

"Alright, alright, just a minute," I said hurriedly, very aware that both my mother and Ruth were watching me as they listened to my conversation, so I stepped out of the kitchen, closed the door and made my way to my surgery.

As the picture of Louisa and James on the mantle in there caught my eye, I felt a huge surge of anger and resentment as I realised that my mother hadn't been back for more than a few minutes and yet she was already causing a rift between Louisa and me. She had waltzed back into my life and was now expecting me to bail her out, despite having had no compunction in telling me that in being born, I had been a mistake that had blighted her life. When I thought about how wonderfully loving and caring Louisa was with our son, the contrast could not be any greater, and my resolve hardened not to do anything that could in any way risk their future security.

"Martin? Are you still there?" Louisa called down the phone. I was all too aware that our very recent reconciliation was still very tentative, and I knew that our break up had been caused to a large extent by my failure to discuss things with her. I'd promised to try my best not to do that from now on, that I would try to be much more open with her, so with this in mind, I took a deep breath.

"It's my mother," I said, as I rubbed my temple to try to ease the tension headache that was beginning to pound in my head.

"What do you mean, what about your mother?" she asked, clearly confused.

I could hear James crying in the background, obviously getting grumpy. He didn't like his routine upset, and knowing this Louisa had carefully timed her trip to get him home in time for his tea and bedtime.

"She's here. My mother is, I mean."

"Oh, I see. Well, a reconciliation has to be a good thing doesn't it Martin? I mean I know you said you don't get on, but she's your mother…"

"It's _not_ a good thing. Look, it's complicated, and I really think you would be better off not meeting her for now," I tried to explain, wanting to spare her the ordeal.

"Are you ashamed of me or something Martin? Is that why you don't want me to come home to meet your mother, because you think I'll embarrass you in front of her?"

I could hear the accusing tone in her voice, and I closed my eyes in despair, knowing that if I handled this badly, it could spell the end of our blossoming relationship. I'd always thought that Louisa had seemed disappointed not to have met my parents when they'd visited before, but I'd been relieved. I couldn't have stood to have watched my father smarming up to a beautiful woman like Louisa, as he had with Mark Mylow's fiancée, and I couldn't have stood to see my mother look down her nose at Louisa because she was a local Cornish village girl. No, it had been a lucky escape for her at the time, even if she didn't see it that way.

"No Louisa. It's not _you _I'm ashamed of, quite the opposite in fact. It's my _m__other_ I'm ashamed of.

"Oh, I see." Louisa seemed a little reassured by my words. "Well, she can't be that bad, so I'm sure I can deal with meeting her Martin. What's she here for anyway? I thought you said she lived abroad, Spain or somewhere wasn't it?"

"Portugal. It's complicated… the reason why she's come back, it's complicated," I said evasively, because I just couldn't bring myself to tell Louisa the horrid nasty truth. Tight as my finances were at the moment, my mother was now adding to this burden by expecting me to provide for her in her so called 'golden years'.

"What? Is she ill or something?" Louisa persisted.

"Look, please just trust me. I'll explain everything later, but for now, just give me twenty minutes or so before you come back, to get things sorted. Now I've really got to go, Ruth's in the kitchen with her at the moment, and I think there's every chance they might kill each other," I explained.

"You've got ten minutes, because I'm heading back Martin. I've got to meet your mother at some point, she can't be that bad and you can't hide her forever you know," Louisa said, before she hung up.

Whilst trying to quickly gather my thoughts to come up with some sort of plan to deal with my mother, I hid the letter from Louisa's father in my desk drawer, as I felt she already had more than enough to cope with at the moment without him adding to things. The other matter with the invitation to the stupid fancy dress party could wait, as could the letter from London that I hadn't got round to opening yet. Then I hurriedly went to the rack of leaflets that the local authorities insisted we had on display in the waiting room, and gathered up all the ones that I thought might be relevant, before making my way back into the kitchen, where I could hear raised voices.

"You have to realise that Martin has other responsibilities, other priorities now, you can't just swan back into his life and expect him to drop everything just for you," Ruth was insisting.

"I'm his mother. It's his duty to look after me. What else does one have children for, for goodness sake?"

My mother looked up at me as I came back into the room.

"Isn't that right Martin? You are going to make sure mummy is looked after as she should be, aren't you?" she stated as she looked intently at me, daring me to contradict her, knowing that I never had in my life before.

"Absolutely. I will give you every possible assistance to get you back on your feet again," I assured her, as Ruth raised her eyebrows despairingly and threw her hands up in disbelief, while my mother smiled smugly at her.

"Please don't let this woman manipulate you Martin, because that is what she is doing, you do realise don't you? You have to put Louisa and James first," she pleaded.

"Why would he be worried about his lodgers for goodness sake Ruth? He can just get rid of them now that I'm here and need the room, can't you Martin," my mother stated, as she examined her nails. I noticed that despite her claims to have had to sell her jewellery to pay for her flight back, she was still sporting a huge diamond ring, as well as her usual pearl necklace and earrings. Undoubtedly they were genuine, as my mother would never dream of wearing anything fake.

"Lodgers? You really haven't got a clue have you? Louisa is …"

"Mum, I have these for you, which I think you might find of use," I hastily interrupted Ruth and glared at her to shut her up, as I put some booklets and leaflets on the table.

"What are these for? Why would I be interested in 'Claiming Your State Pension' leaflets?" Mum asked in puzzlement.

"You should be aware that at your age you are entitled to claim a state pension, and that you are still able to claim this even as a resident in Portugal, as they are a member of the EU," I explained.

Fortuitously, I had recently read an article in 'The Times' about how large numbers of British pensioners were heading off to warmer climes such as Spain and Portugal in their retirement. The article had explained how these pensioners found the cost of living so much cheaper out there, especially with no winter fuel bills to pay, and that they were still able to claim their British state pensions if they settled within an EU country that had a reciprocal agreement. I'd noted that Portugal was one of those countries.

"There is also a very helpful website that I would be more than happy to help you access to start your claim," I concluded, having previously found the official UK government website to actually be quite useful in these matters.

"State pension? I couldn't possibly, that's just for common people who don't have anything else. I don't need to stoop that low, not when you can provide for me," mum spluttered.

"And I can refer you to my solicitor who can assist you in mounting a case against Dad for neglecting to disclose that he is the owner of a London flat of considerable worth, when you negotiated your divorce settlement for half the value of his estate. Dad wouldn't necessarily have to sell, he could instead arrange an equity release plan that would free up some capital now, but wouldn't be repayable until after his death when the property was sold. The proceeds from this plan should be more than sufficient to buy you another property in Portugal outright, as prices have fallen so considerably there."

I was familiar with equity release plans as I had investigated this option when I'd bought out my father's share of Joan's farm, but at the time I'd ruled it out as not offering the most suitable solution for my situation.

I also made a mental note to re-assess the regular payment I made to my father, in light of his deceitfulness to me regarding his circumstances.

My mother was staring at me open mouthed in horror at my suggestions.

"Martin, it would be far simpler if you just took care of things to provide for me, it's really not too much to ask is it?" she whined.

"As I stated, I will give you every assistance with this process. As it is not convenient for you to say at my house, here is a list of local B & B's recommended by the local tourist board, and you are welcome to use the phone to see which ones have vacancies. Perhaps Ruth can give you a lift to the appropriate location once you have made the arrangements. I can assist you with this expense for the short term. However, I am not prepared to risk the financial security of my family to service any further needs. You will simply have to learn to adapt your life style to suit your reduced level of income, which should in any case be perfectly adequate for your needs," I said.

"Bravo Martin! Well said," Ruth exclaimed delightedly.

"But _I_ am your only family, so what are you talking about?" my mother queried in bewilderment.

"No, you're not, not anymore," I said, just as Louisa walked in through the door carrying James Henry in her arms.


	4. Chapter 4

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter Four**

Louisa stared curiously at the woman she realized must be my mother. I briskly stepped across the room, so that I was standing next to Louisa, giving her a visual once-over as I did so. She looked tired, but I was relieved to detect no obvious signs of illness. I knew she was anxious to tell me about the reason for her visit to Truro; unfortunately, that conversation would have to wait until we'd dealt with my mother.

Mum slowly stood up from her chair. Her eyes took in not only Louisa but also James Henry, and I watched with resignation as her forehead creased and the edges of her mouth turned down. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Aunt Ruth had also risen to her feet.

It was time for a showdown.

"This is James Henry Ellingham," I said, taking the baby from Louisa's arms and hugging him to my chest. "My son."

My mother's eyes widened and her mouth opened, yet no sound came out.

"And," I continued, pointedly wrapping my arm around Louisa's shoulder. "This is Louisa, his mother."

"Mrs. Ellingham," Louisa said formally. "It's a pleasure finally to meet you."

As much as I'd dreaded and even feared this moment, now that I was in it, it was strangely liberating. For one of the very few times in the presence of one or both of my parents, I actually felt in control of my situation. The only thing I fervently wished was that I could have introduced Louisa as my wife. Still, as my mother continued to stare at us, I knew my words had had their desired effect.

To her credit, she regained her composure with surprising swiftness. She took a deep breath and wiped away a few beads of perspiration that had formed on her forehead. Although she stood nearly a foot shorter than me, she somehow always managed to look down her nose at me when speaking.

"Well Martin," she said in a voice that dripped icicles. "I suppose it was only a matter of time until you knocked up some local girl." The uncharacteristically crass language from my normally refined mother left no doubt she'd chosen her spiteful words with care.

"Now just a minute—" Louisa started.

My mother pointedly ignored her and continued speaking directly to me, as if Louisa weren't even in the room. "I suppose your chivalry is commendable, on some level." There was no mistaking her sarcasm. "But you of all people should know better than to get some farm girl pregnant. Whatever were you thinking? You're a doctor. Certainly you've heard of contraception? Or abortion even?"

It was all coming apart. My control of the situation was wilting under my mother's verbal assault. "Mother, I think that's enough—"

"Margaret!" Aunt Ruth almost spat out the word. "That's completely uncalled for."

"But obviously true."

James Henry started squirming and I adjusted his position, rubbing my free hand along his back in an attempt to soothe him. Beside me, Louisa stiffened and was breathing heavily. No doubt a full-sized blowup was about to ensue. I squeezed her arm to let her know that I would deal with this horrible creature who happened to be my flesh and blood.

My eyes bored into those of my mother. "Louisa is not 'some farm girl.'" I barked out the words. "She is the head teacher at our school and the mother of our child. And I love her very much."

Mother clasped her hands together and gave a sigh of victory. "Not enough to marry her, obviously."

"That was my choice," Louisa blurted out. "Martin asked me to marry him—"

"Oh I'm sure he did. He's always pathetically _trying_ to do the right thing, even if it's the stupid thing." She leveled a frosty gaze on me. "Now I understand why you won't take proper care of your own mother. You're too busy supporting this . . . gold-digger . . . and her bastard child."

Aunt Ruth gasped.

Louisa turned to me, fire in her eyes.

I . . . at that moment, I wanted to strangle my mother. Before I could get a word out, James started crying. From the feel of his nappy and the familiar unpleasant scent, he was most assuredly wet.

"So tell me, Martin?" Mother continued in a voice that was infuriatingly calm. "Are you certain this . . ." She glanced at James Henry with disdain. "This child is yours? Have you even done a paternity test?"

A guilty look must have crossed my face because Mother's expression immediately turned to one of triumph.

"You haven't, have you?" She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath, then turned on Louisa. "It's not his child, is it? This is all some trick to get his money. No wonder he hasn't a penny to spare on his own mother."

"How dare you—" Louisa started. "What gives you the right to come into our home—?"

"_Your_ home?" my mother asked derisively.

"To come into _our_ home," Louisa repeated with emphasis, "and make such outlandish, unwarranted and untrue accusations? Who do you think you are?"

"The truth hurts, doesn't it, dear?"

Louisa and my aunt were now staring at me, both waiting for me to say or do something. I'd given Louisa more than enough cheek over the years about her father and her mother. Whatever must she think of _my_ mother? And, more importantly, what did Louisa think of _me_ for allowing the woman to say such horrid things about her and our son?

Mothers inherently loved their children; it was a fact I'd seen played out throughout my life. So, I'd always assumed my own mother must harbor that same emotion even if she didn't show it the way other mothers did. I'd always believed – or at least hoped – if I simply said the right thing or acted a certain way, my mother would eventually show some affection toward me.

I should have realized the impossibility of that ever happening several years ago, when Mum sat in my kitchen and confessed to resenting me from the moment of my birth. Her revelation should have convinced me she was either incapable of loving me or fundamentally unwilling to do so. Yet even then I'd irrationally harbored some hope she might one day come to her senses; that she'd realize she did love me, at least on her terms, whatever they might be.

Standing here today and enduring her vitriol, I realized it would never happen. She really did despise me. My mother hated me, and now apparently hated her own grandchild as well, probably for no reason other than he was my son. And there was nothing I could ever say or do to change her because, I now understood, she was incapable of change.

Still, it was one thing for her to insult me; by now that was familiar territory. But I would not stand by and let her insult Louisa, and I absolutely refused to allow her to slander my son.

Whether out of some misguided sense of obedience or fear that speaking the truth would drive my mother even further away, for forty years I'd tolerated her callous behavior. Today that would change. It had to, for James Henry's sake.

I stood tall, squared my shoulders, hugged my son closer to my body, and took a deep breath. "Mother, your comments are horrid and untrue; salacious even by your contemptible standards. This is our home – Louisa's and mine. James Henry is our son – _my_ son – and I am proud to be his father."

She waved off my comments. "Oh, Martin, don't be so melodramatic."

I ignored her and pressed on. "And you are not welcome to stay here."

"Oh? And where exactly do you expect me to stay?"

James started crying loudly, and I was torn between calming him and responding to my mother.

"I don't care," I said, jiggling James. "Stay on the street if you like."

"Bravo!" Aunt Ruth said and I silenced her with a stern look.

My mother theatrically clutched at her chest like some aged actress in a serial. "Martin, I can't believe you're doing this. I'm your mother."

"You gave birth to me. Watching Louisa with our son, I now realize what it means to be a mother. You're not a mother and never have been."

"Oh, Martin, that was quite the little speech, wasn't it?"

I pointed toward the door. "If you cannot act civilly, get out. Now!"

"Martin, stop it."

"Go," I repeated.

"Please, you're upsetting me. I . . ." She rubbed her hand dramatically across her chest, then sank back into the chair, breathing heavily.

I rolled my eyes, thoroughly disgusted. I wasn't falling for the theatrics. The woman would try absolutely anything to avoid acting like a decent human being. This was obviously her latest ploy, a last desperate attempt to appeal to my sympathy.

I was having none of it. "I'm not interested in your histrionics."

Louisa reached for the baby. "Martin, your mother really doesn't look well. Maybe you ought to see to her—"

"Of course she doesn't look well. She's just finished demanding money from me, insulting you and our son, and making herself the center of attention. And now, she's pretending to be having some sort of attack." Even as I spoke, I couldn't help but notice my mother hadn't made her usual snappy comeback to any of my insinuations.

"Martin!" Aunt Ruth spoke my name with a sense of urgency.

"What?" I snapped.

My aunt was kneeling beside Mum, a hand wrapped around her wrist. "I'm not so sure she's pretending," she said, a worried expression on her face. "Might you step off your high horse for a minute and have a look at her."

I mentally frowned, certain that it would be a waste of my time, even as a tiny sliver of concern crept over me as I recalled Mum's ashen features when she'd first appeared at my door. I quickly transferred James Henry into Louisa's arms and, with an apologetic grimace for the disaster this afternoon had become, made my way to my mother's side.

"Mum, what's wrong?" I asked perfunctorily, pressing my fingers against her carotid, convinced this was nothing more than another arrow in my mother's quiver of manipulation. Her pulse was racing, which could indicate illness or simply agitation over the events of the past few minutes. Lord knew my own heart rate was elevated. "Are you having chest pain?"

She bit down on her lip and turned away from me.

I reminded myself that my mother might be a nasty bitch, but she was also now my patient, at least until I could rule out a physical cause for her symptoms. I fought back my bitterness and let my medical persona take over.

"You were holding your chest. Are you having pain or pressure there?"

"It feels tight," she mumbled softly. "Not pain exactly."

"Any pain in your neck, your jaw or your arm?"

"My arm," she answered, in a voice that seemed to quiver. "My left arm."

"Should I call an ambulance?" Louisa asked from behind us.

"Not yet." My mother's symptoms could be caused by anything from anxiety to a myocardial infarction; I'd need to do further testing to sort it out. And, much as I'd wanted her dead a few moments ago, now it was my duty as a physician to take care of her – to make sure she in fact didn't die. I reached for her arm and nodded at Aunt Ruth. "Let's get her into the surgery."

"No." My mother shook her head vehemently and, when I looked into her eyes, saw fear mixed with defiance.

"Mother, you may be seriously ill. I need to examine you."

"Margaret," Aunt Ruth said in a non-nonsense voice, taking my mother's other arm. "Stop being difficult and let him help you."

As we slowly headed toward the consulting room, I glanced at Louisa, whose expression had quickly transformed from anger to worry. "Why don't you take James upstairs," I suggested.

"What about your mother? Maybe I should stay—?"

"Aunt Ruth and I will take care of her." Louisa pursed her lips and I mentally berated myself for snapping at her. None of this was her fault; I forcibly softened my tone. "It would help me if you could see to James," I added and was relieved when she nodded and headed up the stairs.

"Have you had chest pain before?" I asked Mum as we crossed through the kitchen.

No answer.

"Mum, have you had chest pain before?" I persisted.

"Pressure once or twice. No pain."

Once we'd assisted Mother onto the examination couch, I turned to my aunt. "Can you hook her up to the ECG; it's in the bottom center cabinet."

As Ruth retrieved the machine and attached the leads, I grabbed my stethoscope and listened to my mother's chest. It was, I realized with a cruel twist of irony, the closest I'd come to touching her heart.

Other than the tachycardia, everything sounded normal. Yet, her color remained poor and her breathing labored.

Mother's eyes followed me as I turned on the ECG machine. "Am I having a heart attack?"

I refused to look at her. "That's what I'm trying to determine," I replied in my detached, clinical voice.

"You hate me, don't you." It was a statement of fact, delivered in a flat monotone.

"Be still," I ordered, staring at the ECG printout.

She sighed heavily. "I suppose I deserve it. Your hatred that is."

"Yes, you do."

I hated her not only for what she'd said today but for the person she'd been for as long as I could remember. Yet, much as I hated her, she was still my mother. And, for reasons I couldn't understand let alone articulate, I didn't want anything bad to happen to her.

"So, Martin, what's wrong with me? Is it serious?"

I studied the ECG readout for several more seconds, then faced her to give her my answer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Authors Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter Five**

I stood there looking down at my mother, my dear old mum, the woman who bore me in her secret places; the woman who, the breath in my throat caught for a moment, who shipped me off to as many boarding schools as possible. The woman who told me in this very cottage that my birth had ruined her relationship with my father, once and for always, and that my mere existing had driven dear old dad away from her womanly charms.

I held the ECG strip in my hand, and to my utmost horror, realized that my hand was shaking. I had looked into the very guts and goo of human existence, had patched the circulatory systems of the sick and the dying, and now my hand – the golden hand of the former surgeon known as Ellingham – was shaking like a leaf.

"Martin? What is it?" asked Aunt Ruth, her voice quavering with concern. "Can't be as bad as all that, can it? Or you'd be jumping on Margaret's scrawny chest and screaming at me to call 999!"

Her ECG read normal. Her blood pressure a mite elevated, yet she was sweating, shaking, and felt mild chest and arm pain. We'd certainly ganged up on the woman, Ruth, Louisa, and I as well. Was it a panic attack? Angina? Premature ventricular contractions, or… just what?

Margaret looked pale lying on the exam couch, rubbing her breast bone, and staring up at me with wide and sad eyes. "All this way from bloody Portugal to be abused and yelled at by my own son, and a _former_ relative, and now I'm to die in this backwater," she muttered.

"You're not dying. Not by a long shot," I said.

That surprised her and she sat upright "Oh? What then?"

I snagged my wheeled stool and sat down, and now by looking up at mum, she relaxed. "Have you had these before? The mild chest or arm pain?"

"Yes, I suppose."

"When?"

"Oh, I don't know. Aren't you going to call for an ambulance?" her pale face looked up at me, almost pleading.

"No. Tell me when you've felt these pains. Often?" I fixed her with a stare waiting for a more detailed answer.

"Not really that often." She bit her lips.

"Margaret, just what does that mean?" butted in Aunt Ruth.

"Aunt Ruth!" I yelled at her. "Can you please shut it?"

"I am a doctor too, you know." Aunt Ruth protested. "I can diagnose as well as you, Martin."

I sighed. Now I was in a tug of war between my aunt and my mother. I opened my mouth to put my aunt in her place, when the door swung open slowly and Louisa looked in cautiously.

"How's it going?" Portwenn's Head Teacher asked. "Anything I can do? The baby's napping."

That moment of pause, and the look of caring concern showing on Louisa's face, was exactly what I needed to center myself. Dr. Milligan's voice from the aversion training CD went through my head. 'You are in the operating theater. The patient is ready, the nurses and technicians are ready, and you are ready.' I breathed deeply. 'You are in control, and they are waiting for you and your expertise.' his voice ran around my in head some more so I squared my shoulders.

"A cup of tea might be nice," my mother said. "If it's no trouble."

Louisa bit her lip momentarily. "Right… White or black and how many sugars?" Her eyes met mine, with a hint of the panicky look the day when Mrs. Tishell had taken James Henry on an outing.

Mother looked squarely at Louisa. "White please. Not too much milk. One sugar."

Aunt Ruth muttered, "Margaret Ellingham saying please? I am shocked."

"Shush," I told her. "Tea… might be a good idea. If it's no trouble." I took mum's hand, and it took all my strength to do so. "Tell me again - about the pains. When and where?"

Louisa ducked out and clattered away down the hall. From her clip-clop footsteps I could sense she was still upset. The way her heels slapped the slate was sort of a stomping noise. I had learned that when Louisa Glasson moved abruptly like that she was mad, determined, and distressed. Mad at the intrusion of my mum, determined to try to be a good hostess, and distressed at how she had been spoken of and to. I also could tell from the rueful look on her face that she was upset about losing her temper with someone who was a total stranger, especially one that was related to her son.

There are those who think that I am a rude, obstinate, and tedious tosser. They are right much of the time, but from my relations with people of all sorts, I had become a student of the species. If I had not become such, I'd not have been able to do all that I had done _and_ survive. Not that I am always able to control my mouth from speaking out exactly what I thought, but I did observe these things. Knowing what to say and how to say it was one problem that I have. Louisa has been working with me on that part, although she has not exactly been aware how much she has taught me these last few months.

Mum sighed. "Oh, now and then."

"Go on," I told her and I looked daggers at Aunt Ruth as she started to throw in her two pence, but she clammed up.

"Well, when your father told me he'd lost all our money – those bad investments. Then again when Armando told me that I was wiped out; more money trouble." She bit her lip. "When I found out I was pregnant and again when you were born – when you wet the bed and came home telling us how you were bullied at school… When I knew foe certain that Christopher was having affairs."

I held up a hand and she mercifully ground to a halt, mostly.

"And when the divorce decree was finalized…" she finished her tale. "That sort of thing."

"Sounds like…" Ruth started to say.

"Shush!" I took my stethoscope and listened once more to the lub-dub of mother's heart holding the flat diaphragm to her bony chest. She'd lost weight, I could tell, over the last three years since I'd seen her last. I closed my eyes, blocking out the world, envisioning the biological machinery churning away. Blood was flowing from her lungs into the left atrium, through the mitral valve, the left ventricle began to constrict… there. There it was … I heard a high frequency noise of blood flow into the aorta, then a click, with a hint of regurgitation. Yes – that explained it. The click nailed it down – textbook.

I listened for a few more seconds while mother's eyes grew wide during my extended listening and as her heart sped up each click became noticeable with the increased heart rate. I pulled the earpieces from my ears, rolled the tubing up, opened a drawer in my medical cart, pushed the instrument in and slammed it shut. "I should not be treating you mother; bad idea for a doctor to treat a family member. There are too many issues associated with missing any obvious…"

"Oh, for God's sake Martin! Tell me! You know something!" Mum sat up straighter and started to button her blouse. "I'll just call your father…"

"No, you won't," I almost shouted. I did not want dad to be involved in this nightmare. "I'll be referring you to someone in Truro. I'll call Chris Parsons, Head of the PCT, and he'll know which cardiologist I should refer you to. Tests will be needed."

Her mouth fell open in shock. "A referral?"

"Yes." I stood, walked to the sink and washed my hands.

"Oh, come on, Marty!" mum said. "Tell me!"

I whirled on her. "No! You may call me Martin, or Ellingham, or even, if you wish, son. But _not_ Marty. There's only _one_ person…" my voice broke as Louisa walked into the room.

Louisa took in the tense scene. "Tea's ready. In the kitchen?" she said cautiously.

"One woman…" I went on but had to stop. "One woman… who would ever… or should ever, have called me that… as a tone of _endearment_. The one who loved me – and she is now dead."

"Joan?" Mum's face fell. "It's like that, is it?"

Louisa crossed the room and took my hand and rubbed my fingers and palm.

That gave me the courage to go on after a quick glance at Louisa whose tear rimmed eyes must have mirrored my own. "Yes… yes, it _is_ like that."

Aunt Ruth stood and smoothed her skirt. "Well, I'm for some tea," she announced with loathing and left the room.

"Mother," I went on formally. "You will need to have an echocardiogram. It will use ultrasound waves to examine the hydraulics of the heart and the structures - the valves and chambers."

Her eyes looked soulful under the double attack of a medical issue and an emotional one. "I'm not having a heart attack then?"

I shook my head _no_. "The echo should confirm my suspicions that you have MVP - mitral valve prolapse. The mitral valve, which divides the left atrium from the left ventricle, is leaking very slightly. I can hear a slight regurgitation, that is a back flow, through the valve when the ventricle contracts . The symptoms you have described and I have witnessed are consistent with that diagnosis. The onset of symptoms - pain of the chest or arm - during times of stress are a prime indicator. Plus you've lost weight, another sign. You _have_ lost weight?"

She sniffed. "I have been skipping meals. Haven't had much appetite."

"Your weight loss may not _necessarily_ be due to a decrease in caloric intake."

"Oh," her voice shook.

"MVP is generally not life threatening," I told my mother. "As long as there are no complications caused by bacterial infection. If that has happened - valve scarring or stiffening - then medication or surgery may be required."

"Oh," she said once more with a quaver and her face grew alarmed.

Mum and I faced each other in this awkward tableau. Louisa held my hand through it, though, and that was a needed comfort.

"Well!" said Louisa trying to break the tension. "Tea is ready. What say we have some?" She crossed the room to mum but turned to me with a concerned look. "That all right?"

"Yes," I waved. "Go on."

Louisa stretched out a hand and took mum's. "Margaret? May I call you Margaret? Let's go into the kitchen and have that tea."

Mum stood and in a daze shuffled along, guided by Louisa. I followed feeling that in some way I had lost the battle – having received news that I did not want to receive either.


	6. Chapter 6

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter 6**

I reached for Louisa's hand as she followed my mother down the hallway to the kitchen. She turned to me, and I could tell she was unhappy at having to play nurse maid to mum. I squeezed her hand and she gave me a tired smile. "I need a few minutes to clean up my consulting room. Do you mind?"

"No, Martin that's fine," she replied. Louisa's hand slipped out of mine, and I instantly missed its reassuring warmth.

I did need to clean up the ECG machine and sort the rhyme strips in preparation for mum's cardiology appointment. But I also needed a few minutes to myself so I could think through the implications of my mother's diagnosis. From my extensive study of heart valve disease both as a surgical registrar and in the course of retraining as a GP, I knew that mitral valve prolapse is often passed on from parent to child. It was doubtful I had inherited this problem, but not impossible, as the valve could remain fairly functional until something triggered it to work less efficiently and hence cause symptoms. Stress is a usual trigger, and goodness knows I have experienced enough stress in the form of panic attacks to cause a faulty mitral valve to become symptomatic.

No, it was James I worried about as I untangled the leads of the ECG machine. He could have inherited the gene that causes mitral valve prolapse, unwittingly passed on by me through my mother. I shuddered at the thought.

I could protect James from my mother's vile insinuations, but I could not protect him from the harmful effect a rogue gene would have on his heart. I felt powerless, having lost a battle I didn't even know I was fighting.

I wanted to run upstairs and listen to James little chest, fearing I would hear the tell-tale click of a diseased valve. But Louisa needed me by her side; I would do a full vascular and cardiac exam on my son once I figured out what was to be done with my mother.

I stowed the ECG machine in the cupboard and was about to make my way to the kitchen when I remembered the letter from Louisa's father that came in today's post. It was still in my desk drawer where I had placed earlier, and I decided to leave it for now, having only enough patience for one parental crisis at a time.

The kitchen was ominously quiet and the scene that greeted me could have been forged in one of my worst nightmares. My mother and Louisa sat at the kitchen table, throwing uneasy glances at one another while Aunt Ruth leaned against the counter, watching mum like a warden keeping on an eye on an unruly prisoner. Louisa briskly stirred milk in her tea, and the spoon hit the sides of the cup with a sharp staccato, telegraphing her discontent at my mother's presence in our home.

I noticed mum's cheeks had regained some color but she looked tired and listlessly fingered the pearls strung around her neck. The three women looked up at me expectantly, and I scrambled to find something to say that would not aggravate an already impossible situation.

"Mum, how are you feeling?" I asked quietly.

She sat up a little straighter and leveled a cold look my way before replying, "Better, no thanks to you. I came all the way to this back water asking you to help me in my hour of need. Instead you tell me I am not welcome to stay in your home and," she angrily picks up a leaflet on the state pension plan, "expect me to beg for financial assistance from the state. And then you spring this on me," she waves a dismissive hand in Louisa's direction. "No wonder I had chest pain," she ended indignantly, and crossed her hands neatly on her lap waiting, I supposed, for me to apologize.

Before I could set her straight, Ruth snapped, "Your son chose to use his medical skills to care for you, despite your despicable words to both he and Louisa." Her eyes crackled with fury. "You should be grateful Martin hasn't thrown you out on your miserable scrawny arse, Margaret. I know I would have." Ruth glared at my mother and she had enough sense to look away.

Louisa eyes search mine, and I saw how drawn and tired she looked. It was high time that I put an end to this mess.

"Mother, it's time for you to go. I'll book you a room at the pub," I said firmly.

"Martin, only common people stay at pubs," she responded in an aggrieved tone.

"Beggars can't be choosers," I snapped and took out my mobile to make the call.

"Margaret, the pub is very clean and comfortable. I stayed there for a while before James was born," said Louisa calmly, but I could see a glint of anger in her eyes.

"My point exactly," sniffed my mother. I saw Louisa stiffen and I knew things were about to get worse.

"What exactly are you saying, Margaret?" spat Louisa, her eyes now swimming with anger.

"Mother, I've had enough!" I yelled. "I've already told you to shut up if you can't be civil!"

She stood and yelled back, "How dare you yell at me you ungrateful…" She clutched her chest and with a cry, staggered back into her chair.

The physician in me leapt to action. I asked Ruth to fetch my stethoscope and went to my mother's side to take her pulse. It felt a little fast under my fingers and I noticed her breathing was slightly labored as I placed the diaphragm of my stethoscope on her chest. The mitral valve clicked away, as regular as a metronome and unchanged from the last time I listened to it. Ruth had the presence of mind to bring the blood pressure cuff, and I wrapped it around mum's thin arm. She winced as I inflated it and the gauge read 110/70. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"There appears to be no changes in your condition," I pronounced, "and will arrange for you to see a cardiologist in Truro. Until then, you should avoid stress," I glared at her, "which in your case means saying as little as possible."

She rubbed the front of her chest with palm of her hand. "So, you're still going to send me away tonight? Even though I don't feel well?" she whined.

I was about to reply that there were no changes in plan when Louisa took my hand and pulled me into the hallway. She faced me, and I could see her anger had ebbed a little.

"Martin, if we send your mother to the pub I bet she'll be calling you within the hour with chest pain or some other problem." She sighed, "I don't want her here either, but I don't think we have much choice." Her eyes soften as she continued, "And I need you here, with me."

"Why? Is everything alright?" I asked sharply, my hand reaching for hers.

"I think so, Martin," she replied, a smile playing on her lips. "Give me a few minutes to transfer James to the travel cot in our room before bringing your mother upstairs."

"Just for tonight then," I said dejectedly. I hated the thought of my horrid mother spending the night under the same roof as my family, but I could see Louisa's point.

I kissed her hand and said in a low voice, "Thank you."

"We're in this together, Martin." I gazed into her beautiful eyes and fervently hoped she remembered this once I told her about our financial troubles and the heart valve defect our baby may have inherited, all courtesy of my family.

By the time I walked back into the kitchen, Ruth had put on her coat on and was standing by the door, ready to leave. "So, where am I to take her?" she asked, eyeing my mother with contempt.

I took a deep breath and said, "She's to stay here tonight." I saw a look of triumph flit across my mother's face and quickly added, "It's for one night, Mother. After that, I expect you to find somewhere else to stay."

She gave me a hard look and stood up. "I'd like to go to bed now, Martin. Please help me upstairs."

Ruth rolled her eyes and turned to leave. "You're going to have a hell of a time getting rid of her, mark my words." With that parting shot she left, slamming the door behind her.

I collected my mother's cases and helped her up to the guest bedroom which now served as James's nursery. She moved slowly, but didn't complain of chest pain or dizziness.

Louisa had made up the bed and James was thankfully nowhere to be seen. I deposited the cases next to the bureau and said, "The wash room is down the hall. Good night, mum." I closed the door and walked across the hall to the bedroom I shared with Louisa. She was placing a blanket over James, fast asleep in the travel cot.

"Poor baby, he's exhausted from our afternoon in Truro," she whispered. I wondered what she and James had been up to, but it would have to wait until we got downstairs. The baby needed his rest now but would be awake soon enough, in need of a feed and nappy change. I made sure the baby monitor was switched on and whispered, "Come downstairs. I'll make us something to eat." It was long past our supper time, but I didn't like Louisa to skip meals, especially as she lately appeared more tired than usual.

We went down to the kitchen and I busied myself with moving the leaflets and the box of photo's Aunt Ruth had brought from the farm to the sideboard; I wanted nothing to do with the photos, having enough reminders of my abysmal childhood from the horror occupying the bed in James's room.

Louisa sat at the kitchen table, nibbling on the cheese, apple and crackers I had prepared earlier for my mother, lost in thought. I opened the fridge and took out eggs and asparagus to make an omelet for our supper, all the while keeping an eye on her. Why had Louisa said she needed me here? Did it have something to do with today's trip to Truro?

I was about to ask her, when she stood and said "I guess this is good a time as any." She hurried to her coat hanging on the hooks by the kitchen door and retrieved a single sheet of paper from one of the pockets. It was folded in thirds and the creases had lost their sharp edge, as if it had been read over and over again.

Louisa's hand shook as she handed it to me. "Please read it, Martin."

I quickly unfolded the sheet of paper and read through it once, and then again, rendered speechless by its contents.

**To be continued….**


	7. Chapter 7

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter Seven**

"What is this all about?" I asked Louisa, still not sure what I was seeing on the paper she had placed in my hands, not ready to believe it even though it was there in black and white.

She sighed and twisted her serviette in her hands, with a small smile. "I'd better start at the beginning. Last week – Wednesday I think it was - I had a telephone call up at the school from a solicitor in Truro asking if I was the Louisa Glasson who was Terry Glasson's daughter. When I told him I was, he asked me to come in to his office to meet with him."

She stopped and took a sip of water, followed by a deep breath. "Since then, I've been terrified finding out what this was all about. Calls from solicitors about Dad have a history of being bad news, so I've been stewing about this since the call came in."

"Louisa. Why didn't you say? You could have told me you were worried." I swallowed the lump in my throat, feeling surprisingly disappointed she hadn't felt she could confide in me.

She shook her head. "Martin, you and my dad don't exactly have a great history, and I was not at all sure what I would find out. I wanted a chance to process it first myself."

"But this – this doesn't look like it is a problem with your father . . ."

"No. When James and I arrived, the solicitor – Mr. Carson is his name – told me that his firm was handling the estate of an elderly gentleman on St. Mary's in the Scilly Isles who died in December. Apparently his Will, which was drawn up almost thirty years ago, left his estate to Louisa Catherine Glasson, daughter of Terry Glasson of Portwenn, Cornwall."

Good Lord! This is the kind of thing that happens in books but not in real life. I was intrigued. "I see. Who was he? Do you know him?" 

"His name was Angus Fletcher and honestly I have never heard of him before."

"What did this solicitor tell you? Do you know what he left you?"

"Well as you can see from the letter they gave me today, apparently nearly all his estate was left to me, to be held in some kind of a trust until I reach 40 or get married, at which time it all comes to me outright. I thought it was sweet, some old mate of Dad's remembering me, and that there might be £100 or something. I nearly fell on the floor when they told me there was a property - a cottage on St. Mary's near the lighthouse - plus an estimated £700,000 in cash."

"My God! That's quite an inheritance."

"Yes, yes it is. I haven't quite adjusted to the news. And I really feel I need to get to the bottom of this, get in touch with Dad and find out who this Angus Fletcher was and why he would do this. I don't know if I can bring myself to accept it without knowing what is behind it."

"You had a letter from him – your father that is. It's in my desk drawer. I was looking at the post when Mum arrived and I just stuck it in there for safekeeping."

Before she could respond, we heard James Henry start to whimper over the baby monitor.

"Oi – I'd better go and look after him – best not to let him get worked up and start bawling or he'll wake your mum." She was up and headed towards the stairs in a flash.

"Right. I'll just put the dishes in the dishwasher." I rose and started clearing up.

She looked over her shoulder. "Can you do me a favor and get the nappy bag out of the car? I forgot to bring it in and I realize now that all the nappies in the house are in the room where your mother is sleeping."

"Right. I'll bring it up in just a minute."

She gave me a brilliant smile before heading up to comfort James, and I thought again how lucky my son was to have her for his mother.

After loading the dishwasher, I took the car keys and went in search of the nappy bag. It was sitting on the front passenger seat of the car. I picked it up and was about to lock up the car and return to the house when I saw something in the back seat. Thinking Louisa must have done some shopping and left the parcels behind in the car, I opened the rear door to bring them inside. I found a black garment bag with several clothes hangers sticking out of the top and a clear plastic bag holding a pair of women's shoes.

As I took these things back to the house, I peered more carefully at the shoes. These were definitely not Louisa's usual style of footwear. They were red satin and had tall, thin heels that must have been nearly five inches high. I couldn't imagine how anyone could walk in them, and I really couldn't fathom why Louisa would have acquired them. More puzzling was the fact that they had clearly been worn – the soles had wear and there was a tiny scuff on the inside of one heel. I gulped at the thought of Louisa wearing them – while the physician in me knew they would be absolutely terrible for her feet, the man in me could imagine only too well how her legs and bottom would look if she did put them on.

After squelching that thought, along with the unwelcome thought that she had worn them for someone else's benefit, I reached the hopefully more plausible conclusion that they must belong to someone else. Maybe one of the other teachers or another friend had left them in the car or had asked Louisa to pass them along to someone else. .

As I ascended the stairs, I thought again about Mum and her situation and her outrageous behavior today. I had felt so powerful when I told her to leave. I hated the fact that, despite my finally having found the strength to stand up to her and oppose her nastiness, she was still here under my roof. I knew it was only going to get harder to evict her once she settled in, and my mind was whirring as various scenarios involving her departure played out in my imagination. This was one day I cursed my medical training – if I had been any other beleaguered son I could have just called an ambulance when she complained of chest pains and been done with it.

When I reached our bedroom, I found Louisa sitting on the bed, feeding James. While he was mostly weaned, he still wanted the breast at bedtime and Louisa was more than willing to indulge him in this as she enjoyed the closeness and knew it would be coming to an end soon enough. I always found it the most beautiful scene imaginable and tonight was no exception.

I handed her the nappy bag and set the other items on the bed. "What's all this clobber that was in the car? I brought it in, just in case you needed it."

She raised James to her shoulder to burp him. "Oh, I stopped at the costume shop in Truro while I was up there to hire our fancy dress for the Parsons' anniversary party. It's coming up in two weeks."

"Er, yes, I know, the invitation came in the mail today. But how did you know?"

"Oh come on, Martin. We've known about it for months. It is all they can talk about. Vivian gave me the complete blow-by-blow at the christening party and again at Chris's birthday dinner."

"Well I am not going. You know I don't like parties. And I despise fancy dress. I can't believe they would do this. It's not . . . dignified."

She laughed. "That's the whole point, Martin. Not being dignified. And we have to go. They are your oldest friends and it's their twentieth anniversary so it is a big deal."

"Well we don't have to dress up. We could just wear our regular clothes."

"Not me. I chose something very special to wear."

"Is that what these are for?" I asked, holding up the bag with the mysterious shoes.

"Yes, aren't they something? Just the perfect finishing touch for my costume." She was rocking James slowly in her arms as he drifted off to sleep. "When I get him settled, I'll try the whole outfit on for you if you like."

"Just what exactly did you get?" I asked, wondering what type of fancy-dress called for shoes like this.

"Martin." She sounded exasperated. "It's a Vicars and Tarts party. What did you think I would get? I got one vicar's costume and one tart's costume. And before you ask which is which, I don't think you have any plans to wear red satin pants and fishnet hose so the vicar is for you."

I was mortified at the thought. "Louisa! You can't possibly mean to . . I mean . . . what will people say? You'll be much more comfortable in your regular clothes and it will be more seemly."

"Martin, I can't think of anything more depressing than going to a Vicars and Tarts party dressed in the clothes of a middle-aged primary school teacher!"

"But . . ."

"No buts. You should be happy. All I got for you was a shirt with a Roman collar and a fake mustache. You can wear your own suit and shoes. No cassocks or friar's robes or monk's tonsures, I promise."

"Well . . ."

"Here – you take James and I will try my costume on so you can see for yourself." She gathered the garment bag and the shoes and disappeared towards the bathroom. There was a twinkle in her eyes and her cheeks were pinker than they had been earlier. Either she was blushing or she felt much better.

I hoped her peakedness could be all chalked up to worry about the call from the solicitor. Still, I would feel much better if she had a complete physical examination, preferably performed by me but if not, then by Tom Bates over at the Wadebridge surgery. I would tackle that topic at breakfast.

I looked down at the baby now sleeping in my arms. The encounter with my mother had strengthened my resolve not to follow in my own parents' footsteps. I hoped I was not genetically predisposed to be a crap father, almost as fervently as I hoped James was not genetically destined for mitral valve prolapsed. I stroked his cheek and watched his chest rise and fall as he slept. It was almost instinct to count his respirations and put my fingertips on the pulse point in his wrist to count his heart rate. Both were perfectly normal, but first thing in the morning we'd get down to business with a complete cardiac exam.

I laid him on the bed and fumbled in the bag for a fresh nappy and his beloved cuddly bunny. I could hear Louisa humming in the lavatory. I hoped that was a good sign. I made a quick job of changing my son and tucking him into the travel cot for the night while I waited for his mother. I felt proud that I managed to do this without waking him up. I gingerly placed his bunny within his reach and just watched him breathe for a moment.

I had just sat back down on the bed to remove my shoes when I heard the lavatory door open. Around the doorway first came one shapely leg encased in some kind of black mesh, perched on top of one of the red satin stiletto-heeled shoes. My mouth went dry at the sight.

This was soon followed by Louisa's pert bottom, clad in a very brief red satin skirt with black ruffles puffing it up so her red satin knickers were visible beneath. Red satin garters snaked down her creamy thighs making a dramatic contrast with her tights. She then stood up, her back to me so I could see that her middle was completely bare and on top she wore some kind of cropped black top with tiny puffed sleeves over which was laced a short red satin waistcoat.

When she turned to face me, my jaw dropped. She was ravishing. Her breasts were pushed up somehow to nearly spill out of the top, and the skirt was slung low enough that her navel was exposed. Any baby weight she still carried, she was carrying in exactly the right places as she was curved where a woman should be curved but her belly, on display for anyone who cared to look, was flat and toned. And her legs. My God, those shoes made her legs look like they went on forever!

It took me a moment to realize I hadn't even looked at her face. I blushed to the tips of my ears realizing how I had been ogling her.

"So?" she asked, coyly. "Does this qualify as Tart-like?" Her voice was low in an effort not to wake the sleeping baby, but it only made her comment seem more intimate.

I could hardly speak. I resorted to my usual comment on her appearance, the wholly inadequate response "very nice." I hoped she noticed my appreciative glances as well.

She crossed the room and sat down beside me, put her arms around my neck, and kissed me soundly.

"Louisa. We can't . . . the baby . . . what about Mum . . .?"

"Shush, Martin," she said, effectively quieting me by capturing my mouth with her own. Her kiss was insistent and my lips responded even as my head protested that we shouldn't do this.

I leaned back against the headboard and pulled her onto my lap. All thoughts of James and Mum and money troubles and mitral valves and mysterious inheritances flew right out of my head as I focused on her soft lips, her sweet breath, the way her fingers caressed my hair, the way her satin-clad bottom felt beneath my hands.

I glanced at the door as she pulled back and looked up at me, her arms clasped around my neck.

"Martin?"

I swallowed, still not sure if I could go through with what she seemed to have in mind, what with my son sleeping beside me and my mother ensconced in the next room. "Yes, Louisa?"

I was not prepared in any way for what she said next.

"Martin, will you marry me so I can claim my inheritance?"

**To Be Continued . . .**


	8. Chapter 8

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter 8**

**Somehow I had the presence of mind, not to respond to Louisa's marriage proposal in a manner which she may later consider insincere. I simply said: "I will marry you, Louisa, because I love you. Not so that you may claim your inheritance."**

"**Good," was her simple reply. Smiling, she then said "Here we go, through the snow, Comrades forever." Louisa told me she could never remember her father saying he loved her. Rather he would utter this phrase from Prokofiev's "Peter and the Wolf" as she went off to bed each night. Odd though it might be, it was far more loving than anything my mother or father ever said to me. **

**Proving she loved me as well, Louisa began to undress me while I gazed into her determined eyes. "Mum be damned," I murmured after my shirt came off and just before I covered Louisa's mouth with mine. My clothes were easily cast aside, but Louisa's costume was unyielding. How, I thought, could a tart possibly ply her trade, if what she offered was so firmly encased in ribbons, buttons and assorted frippery. **

**After fumbling about herself, Louisa was able to free her milk scented breasts, from half of the get-up leaving me to untangle the garters, skirt and knickers. It was a bit more than a trained surgeon would be made to master, but I finally prised the bits and pieces away leaving only the mesh hose. Louisa was becoming alarmingly boisterous as she fell to her back on the bed and extended one leg and then the other in the manner of a French cancan dancer. **

**To quiet her, I captured her right leg and slowly pulled the delicate mesh over her warm thigh across her knee and down her curved calf, all the while taking in her delectable body and the smirk she could not conceal. This was fun! Louisa complained that I did not know how to have fun and assured me I could learn. Well then, I was learning, and she was quite the teacher. **

**Unlike many a man following a tryst with a tart, I felt no remorse the next morning. I awakened at dawn to a strangely-quiet surgery and a great sense of lassitude. I slowly opened my eyes and spied James Henry sleeping peacefully. Thankfully, he had not awakened during the night for either a nappy or a feed. Louisa was curled into my side, having slept through the night for the first time since our child's birth.**

**I gingerly left the bed, covered myself with a dressing gown and peered anxiously into the hallway. No sound came from the room used as a nursery and now housing my mother. I slowly opened the door to find her sleeping with hands primly crossed on her narrow chest. The sedative had its effect. She was softly snoring, and her colouring was better.**

**Walking to the bathroom, I tried to be as quiet as possible. Time was needed to consider the many matters that had suddenly fallen to me, and I had no wish to rouse anyone. **

**In the shower, I pushed aside the various unguents and ointments Louisa had introduced to the bath and fished about for my sliver of Bronnley's soap. No leisurely ablutions for me, as I proceeded to both wash and shave in the shower. Hot water and time in the bath were at a premium with the three of us sharing living quarters. What strain would Mum place on this delicate arrangement?**

**Not my concern, I tried to convince myself. Later today I would see Mum to the pub or Port Wenn Hotel, where her demands would fall on the deaf ears of the local publicans. I would also fix a cardiology appointment for her in Truro. Chris Parsons would see to her registration there, or perhaps I would take her to Wadebridge for registration with Tom Bates. It could be done at the same time Louisa had her examination. **

**Despite Aunt Ruth's stern words to Mum, I knew it would be left to me to organise her state pension and interim housing, not to mention healthcare. Margaret Ellingham was never a take charge woman, unlike her two sisters-in-law. Or her future daughter-in-law, a thought which both horrified and pleased me. **

**Louisa had indeed proposed marriage to me, soon making her a daughter-in-law to my vile parents. I did not want to be their son, and I was sure Louisa would share my sentiment about any sort of relationship. As for being James Henry's grandparents: absolutely not. Perhaps in name, but they were to have nothing to do with our precious child. My mother would not even see him. Louisa would certainly agree to this.**

**Donning my dressing gown, I made my way down the surgery stairs to the kitchen, where Louisa and I had talked last evening after dispatching Mum and James to bed. The mysterious inheritance from her father's friend needed to be sorted out. Knowing Terry Glasson, it could have been an old mate who had accumulated the money on the wrong side of the law. The solicitor assured Louisa it was quite legal, but still I wondered why someone would leave a large sum to a woman who was only a friend's child. **

**Perhaps the letter from Louisa's father would shed some light on this Angus Fletcher. Taking her dad's letter from the kitchen drawer, I also saw the letter addressed to me, posted in central London, but with no return address. Likely it was a charity solicitation trying to be clever by not providing an address. Shaking my head ruefully, I realized the bit of cleverness worked as I slid my finger along the envelope flap to open it. **

**It was, of course, typed with no date or address at the top, The flourishing signature at the bottom did catch my attention as I read the words above it:**

**Dear Dr. Ellingham:**

**I am the daughter of Elsa Wimmsley and only recently became re-acquainted with your father following the death of my mother. Not to put too fine a point on it, but your father and my mother apparently had a relationship for many years before Christopher's retirement and move to Portugal. The flat my mother lived in and where I was raised was owned by your father. After her death, he asserted a claim of ownership for it. **

**Of course, this was a bit of a shock to me, but when our solicitors became involved, I realized his ownership was legitimate. Since then, my family and I have gotten to know Christopher and enjoy his company. It is for this reason that I am writing you. **

**As you know, your father's 75th birthday will be next month, and we are planning a bit of a celebration for the event. We would be very pleased if you could join us in London for the day. Christopher said that you are on your own, and it would be quite easy for you to make the trip. A number of his friends still live in London, and the occasion of his birthday might be a good way to bring all of us together. Please do join us. **

**I hesitated ringing you, as I thought this might be something of a surprise for you as well. Please phone me at 020 7591 8956 to discuss the particulars.**

** Very truly yours,**

** Christina Wimmsley Evers**

**I was so stunned by the letter that it slipped from my hand to the floor. This woman, the daughter of my father's mistress, had the audacity to invite me to a birthday party for a man I reviled. A man who was responsible to a great extent for the sorry condition of my mother now resting unwanted in my home. Because of his disregard for finances and his marriage vows, it was now my burden to support the woman whose life I had ruined. **

**Stooping to pick up the letter, I angrily crushed it and tossed it toward the bin. Instead it fell near the box of rubbish Aunt Ruth had hauled in last night. No matter, both would be binned as soon as I could muster them outside. One side of the box was open, and I quickly placed the crushed letter inside. **

**A photo caught my eye as I did so. It was of a younger Auntie Joan, Uncle Phil and my parents standing next to Aunt Ruth and a dark haired man. Someone had scrawled at the bottom: "Joan, Phil, Christopher, Margaret Ruth and Dennis. May 1960. London." I briefly wondered what became of this poor sod Dennis. He and Ruth looked quite happy with his arm around her shoulder and a rare smile on her face. Likely he was one of the men who eluded marriage to my aunt. Perhaps I should keep the box and go through it with Aunt Ruth. She might not realize what it contained. **

**Enough of the Ellingham family memories. I had too many problems to sort out at the minute: helping my mother, Louisa's health, James Henry's cardiology exam, my finances and the strange bequest to Louisa. Not to mention a marriage proposal, this ridiculous Vicars and Tarts bacchanal, and then a proper response to Mrs. Christina Wimmsley Evers telling her in no uncertain terms that I wanted nothing to do with her or my father. **

**As the old Port Wenn fishermen would say: "It is raining dead seagulls." Indeed, my problems were like a storm of dead seagulls. **

**To be continued**


	9. Chapter 9

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter 9**

"Come on my hungry little man, time for your breakfast," I heard Louisa say as she walked into the kitchen carrying our son.

As I looked at them I felt my heart literally swell with love for them both. James Henry gave me a big smile, while Louisa reached up to kiss my cheek. I hadn't said anything yet to her about the possibility of our son having inherited mitral valve prolapse, deciding that I would first complete my own examination of him as soon as I could to see if I could detect any of the tell-tale signs, before worrying her possibly unnecessarily.

"Good morning, my _fiancé_," she said as she flashed her wonderful smile at me. Even just dressed in her pyjamas, she looked so very beautiful, and as pictures from last night's activities in our bedroom flashed through my mind, I realised that although I hated the idea of wearing a costume to attend a fancy dress party, I had never the less thoroughly enjoyed Louisa's private display for me of her outfit. I knew without any shadow of a doubt that I was one very lucky man indeed, and I resolved to do everything in my power to ensure that my mother did not come between us.

At my rather surprised look at how she had addressed me, she reminded me,

"Well you did agree to marry me last night didn't you Martin, you can't have forgotten already surely?" she said, as she strapped James into his chair and put his bib on.

"Well, yes, but…" I wanted Louisa to be my wife more than anything, but I felt distinctly uncomfortable with the thought that she had only suggested it in order to obtain this strange mystery inheritance.

"Not changed your mind have you?" she demanded to know, as she looked up from mixing up James' baby porridge. He was making quite a lot of noise as he waited expectantly for his food, clearly pretty hungry after sleeping through.

"No, no, of course not," I hastily reassured her, deciding that now was not a good time to rock the boat on this issue, not with everything else that was going on at the moment. There would be plenty of time to discuss getting married once we had somehow managed to safely dispatch my mother.

"So, the Ice Queen is still sleeping I take it," Louisa commented wryly as she started spoon feeding James, while he now made appreciative noises.

"I take it you mean my mother, and yes she is. She never rises early, and usually expects a breakfast tray to be taken to her before she can face the day," I explained.

"Oh does she now? Well, I hope she isn't expecting to be waited on hand and foot, because if that's the case then I'm afraid she is going to be sadly disappointed," Louisa huffed.

"No, of course not. I don't intend that she will be here any longer than it takes to arrange for her to be seen by a cardiologist. I'm going to ring Chris Parsons as soon as I can this morning to get a few strings pulled, get her seen today if at all possible. I'm just so sorry that you've been put through all this disruption and unpleasantness, but unfortunately as a doctor I am obliged to ensure that she is treated appropriately. I'm afraid I don't have the luxury of simply throwing her out as most sons would," I said resentfully.

"I understand Martin, really I do, and I wouldn't expect anything less from you," she reassured me. "But whatever she actually has wrong with her, if she managed to travel all the way from Portugal to London, and then down here to Cornwall on her own, she can't be that seriously ill can she?"

"Probably the exertion of the journey and then the stress of last evening's confrontation exacerbated her condition. Under normal, relaxed circumstances when she is fully rested, she may well be pretty much symptom free. But that's why I urgently need to get her examined and assessed, to get an accurate picture before we can decide how best to proceed."

"I see. Your mother really is something else isn't she?" Louisa stated as she shook her head in sheer disbelief.

"Hmm. That's one way of putting it," I agreed. "Perhaps now you can understand why I had no desire for any contact with her, and why I didn't want to inflict you with her presence."

And I certainly had no intention of making any contact with my other parent either. I had not the slightest intention of attending any kind of a birthday party being held in my father's honour after the way he had treated Joan, so I wasn't even going to tell Louisa about the letter I'd received from that woman Christina something or the other.

"But when all is said and done, she is still your mother Martin," Louisa gently pointed out.

"Yes, that is unfortunately the case, much as I might wish it otherwise," I agreed bitterly.

"It's not your fault Martin. No one knows better than me that you can't choose who your parents are, eh?" Louisa tried to joke. "We'll get through this and sort something out together, right? Especially if it turns out that this windfall of mine is all above-board and legal, then we can get your mother another place in Portugal…"

"No! Absolutely not Louisa! If, and it is still a very big if, you do end up actually receiving this inheritance, then there is no way I would ever let you bail my mother out," I insisted angrily. "She will just have to accept that she now has to adjust her lifestyle to suit her reduced circumstances."

"Oh Martin, I have a feeling that it may well be worth every penny it takes just to ensure that she is settled well away from us, surely you can see that?"

"No. She is not your responsibility Louisa. Any money that you might possibly inherit is certainly not to be spent on bribing my mother to stay away. In any case, you need to find out more about this mysterious benefactor before you can even think about what you would do with any windfall," I stated firmly.

"Hmm. Once James is sorted, perhaps you could get that letter for me to read from my dad, see what that is all about, because it might possibly shed some light on matters. Either that, or maybe it's just an early birthday card for me for next week," Louisa suggested.

"One thing at a time. First of all I need to get my mother's medical condition assessed by a heart specialist, that has to be the top priority. I'm just going to get dressed, and then I'll see if I can get hold of Chris on his mobile. If he can get her in to see someone later today, then I shall have to get Morwenna to cancel my afternoon list and reschedule my patients so that I can take her," I said.

It was not a decision I took lightly, but I couldn't see any other option.

oOo

Several phone calls later, it was all arranged. Sen Devadathan, one of the top consultant cardiologists at The Royal Cornwall Hospital in Truro, had agreed to add my mother to his schedule for a full range of tests and consultation at the end of his appointments for the day. This was down to Chris pulling several strings for me - as I very rarely asked for favours, he understood that this was an exceptional case, and I was very grateful to him.

While I'd been on the phone, Louisa had gone upstairs to our bedroom to feed James before getting them both ready for the day, so I decided now was a good time to face my mother, knowing that I'd be tied up for the morning once my surgery opened.

Just as I made my way to the spare room with a breakfast tray, preparing to inform my mother of the arrangements I had made for her, the phone rang.

"I'm just in the middle of changing James' nappy, so can you get that please?" Louisa called out to me from the ensuite bathroom.

I made a detour to our bedroom, put the tray down and picked up the phone next to the bed.

"Ellingham," I answered rather impatiently, expecting it to be a request for my medical services from a patient.

"I weesh to speak wiz Margaret , it ees urgent," a very heavily accented man's voice demanded.

"Who the hell are you?" I asked suspiciously.

"Pleez, put Margaret on. Pleez, ees not much time," the man insisted in what seemed to me a rather panicky voice.

"Not until you tell me who you are and what you want," I replied, on the verge of putting the phone down.

"Armando. Tell her ees Armando calling," he informed me.

"Armando? Armando who? Look, I'm going to terminate this call…"

I hadn't noticed my mother enter the room, and so was taken by surprise when the phone was snatched out of my hand.

"Armando! I'm so glad..." my mother gushed, seemingly every bit as excited as any silly young teenage girl, standing there in her dressing gown clutching the phone to her ear.

Clearly the man had no time for pleasantries as I could hear him cut her short with his gabbling.

"Armando…what do you mean? Of course I wouldn't…I don't know …I won't say anything…of course not… act normally, yes...but when are you…are you still there?"

Mum just stood holding the phone in her hand for a minute after the line went dead, before pulling herself together and composing herself as she handed the phone back to me.

"How the hell did he get this number?" I blustered. "What did he want anyway?"

"Oh Martin, it really is none of your business," my mother sniffed dismissively, pretending an indifference that didn't fool me for one minute. "Naturally I left forwarding details when I left Portugal, just in case…"

"Oh for goodness sake, don't tell me you were hoping this…this… Portuguese lothario would come chasing after you?"

I couldn't believe that she could be so stupid if that was the case. But before she could answer, there was a hammering at the front door. It was still locked as it was not yet surgery opening time.

As I made my way downstairs, I heard PC Penhale calling through the letter box.

"Police, open up! We know you're in there!"

"Of course I'm in here you idiot, where else would I be?" I retorted, as I opened the door.

As well as Penhale at the door, there was another police officer with him.

"Doctor Ellingham, I understand that you are harbouring a Mrs Margaret Ellingham on your property," Penhale announced.

"What are you on about you blithering idiot? Margaret Ellingham is my mother, and I'm not harbouring her, as you put it. What concern is it of yours if my mother is visiting?" I insisted, wondering if the man had completely taken leave of his senses.

"Sorry Doc, but I've got to do this by the book, orders have come from on high, you know, the top brass at Scotland Yard. That's why my new boss has got involved and come over." Penhale spoke in a rather loud conspiratorial whisper as he nodded towards the other police officer.

"Move aside, I'll deal with this Penhale," the other police officer said, as he pushed in front of him to take charge. He was a short, balding man, who I quickly discovered suffered with very bad halitosis, as he leaned in to speak to me and display his warrant card.

"I am Inspector Alan Davies, PC Penhale's superior officer. We wish to speak to Margaret Ellingham with regard to a tip off received from our Portuguese colleagues. This information concerns money laundering activities conducted by a Mr Armando DaSilva, undertaken we believe, in order to fund terrorist activities in East Timor."

I turned round to see my mother descending the stairs. She must have dressed very quickly as she was now her usual elegantly attired self, with her usual haughty demeanour in place. She did look very pale, but maybe that was down to the fact that she hadn't had time to apply her make up and lipstick. Normally she wouldn't dream of being seen in public without a fully made up face.

"Martin, do tell these gentlemen that I have nothing to say to them, so they might as well just leave straight away," she stated coolly."Oh and the tea you brought me was cold, so you'll have to make me a fresh pot."

With that she calmly wafted her way towards the kitchen, leaving myself open mouthed and the two police officers just staring after her.


	10. Chapter 10

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Chapter 10**

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

I turned back to the two officers. "Is my mother under arrest?" I demanded.

Penhale and his supervisor frowned at each other. "May we come in?" Penhale asked.

"No you may not. Just answer my question."

"We're the ones asking questions," Inspector Davies said sharply then took a deep breath and, unfortunately blew it out in my direction. I couldn't help but recoil as the stench hit my nostrils.

"Oh, God," I murmured as my mind automatically ran through the differential diagnosis for halitosis.

"She's not under arrest," Penhale said.

"For now," Davies added menacingly. "Let's just say Mrs. Ellingham is a party of interest whom we believe may have important information to help in our investigation."

I couldn't help but relax slightly at the news. The last thing I needed was for my mother to be carted off in handcuffs. Even so, while I could probably put off the officers for now, they would certainly be back and, at some point, my mother would have to consent to an interview.

"Come on, Doc." Penhale's voice interrupted my thoughts. "We just need to ask a few questions. Won't take but a minute and then you can get back to your family reunion, or . . ." His eyes roamed around suspiciously. "Whatever you've got going on in there."

I decided not to respond to the innuendo and instead raised myself to my full height so that I was staring down at both officers. "I don't think it wise for my mother to speak the police on a criminal matter until she has consulted a solicitor, do you?"

Penhale stepped forward. "Are you asking our opinion? Police officers aren't allowed—"

"Of course I'm not asking your opinion, you idiot."

Penhale frowned and chewed his lower lip as he often did when I pointed out his incompetence.

"And," I continued, "my mother has a medical condition that is exacerbated by stress, such as she would undoubtedly experience speaking with you."

The inspector had pulled out a small notebook in which he started scribbling furiously, probably taking down every word I was saying.

"Would you like to tell us the nature of her medical condition?" Penhale asked.

"No, I would not. She's seeing a consultant in Truro this afternoon."

"Hmmf," the inspector snorted and, in return, I favored him with a look of disdain.

"I need to prepare for my morning surgery." As I started to close the door, the inspector jammed his foot into the opening.

"Just a minute, Doctor. Make sure your mother doesn't leave this area without contacting us. Understood?"

I didn't at all like his tone and was half-tempted to tell him exactly what I thought of his request. However, I had no idea what my mother might or might not have done and irritating the men who had the power to put her in jail was probably not the wisest course.

"She has no plans to leave," I said, mentally adding "unfortunately."

After I'd closed the door, it was my turn to take a deep breath. The past twenty-four hours had turned my life from the complex to the chaotic. Here I was a physician, and the three people currently living in my home all either suffered, or potentially suffered, from a medical problem. There was the letter from Louisa's mysterious benefactor, the letter from my father's illegitimate daughter, and the still unopened letter from Terry Glasson. If that weren't enough, it now appeared that my mother was involved in some sort of criminal enterprise with her Portuguese lover. Which meant that I now needed to add finding a solicitor to my list. Good Lord, what a mess!

I squared my shoulders as I entered my kitchen to find my mother sitting at the table with an expression on her face that I could best describe as "resolute." Her hands were primly folded on her lap, legs crossed at the ankles. There was no mug of coffee or tea set in front of her and no food on the table. She was clearly waiting for someone to serve her. Seeing her like this, for a fraction of a second I imagined her sitting in a prison cell hopelessly awaiting her morning tea. And just as hastily, I banished the thought. The last thing my son needed was to have two grandparents be convicted felons.

"It's about time you sent those men on their way," Mother said, nodding toward the tea kettle sitting cold on the stovetop.

Against my better judgment, I strode across the room and busied myself pouring water into the pot. "You'll have to speak with them eventually" I said, turning on the gas, and then running the coffee machine for myself. "In the meantime, I'll line up a solicitor."

"I don't need—"

I spun around. "Of course you do. You're suspected of involvement in criminal activity."

"I simply won't agree to speak with those men."

"I'm no attorney, but I would think that if you don't cooperate with the police, you may well find yourself in jail."

My mother's eyebrows flew up at that comment, and I hoped that my words wouldn't bring on another cardiac episode. "They – they wouldn't arrest me," she stuttered. Then, after a pause in which she looked rather terrified, added. "Would they? What about my heart condition?" She touched the palm of one hand against her chest.

"Yes, I want to talk to you about that." I poured hot water into a mug, and placed it in front of her. "I've arranged for you to see a cardiologist in Truro this afternoon."

"In Truro? Surely, you don't expect me to see a _local_ doctor."

"Mother, _I_ am a local doctor."

"Yes, I suppose you are," she replied, giving me a disparaging look, which I did my best to ignore.

"Well, you're not fit to travel to London, so you will see the consultant in Truro. And then I'll take you to a bed and breakfast for the night."

Her expression had morphed to one of abject horror. "A bed and breakfast? Surely you jest. You said yourself I'm not fit."

"If you're not sufficiently fit to stay in a B&B, the consultant will admit you to hospital." I set down my mug. "There's fruit on the counter, yoghurt in the refrigerator, bread and cereal in the pantry. Help yourself."

And, without looking back, I strode briskly from the room.

oOo

My morning surgery was somewhat of a blur. Thankfully, the medical complaints were routine because my mind kept drifting to the myriad of personal problems that currently confronted me. When the last patient walked out the door just after noon, I sent Morwenna home, shoved my stethoscope into my suit pocket, and made my way into the kitchen.

Once again my mother sat stiffly in her chair at the kitchen table, and I wondered if she'd moved since breakfast. There was a cup of tea in her hand and a Cornish pastry untouched on a plate in front of her. The latter surprised me, as Mum was never one for sweets of any kind.

"Mother, you'd best get ready," I said. "We need to leave shortly for Truro."

"Oh, Martin, do I really need to go today? I'm not up for such a long drive."

"You should be thankful Dr. Devadathan agreed to see you on such notice. So, yes, you need to go today."

She pursed her lips and gave me a sour look, but said no more.

"I'm just going to pop upstairs and say goodbye to Louisa and James and then we'll go."

Mother pointedly turned her head and stared out the window, suddenly fascinated with the garden.

Upstairs, I found Louisa seated on the bed, tugging on James Henry's trousers. He was squirming contentedly – an apparent contradiction that now actually made sense to me. A year ago, I couldn't have imagined taking pleasure in the simple act of watching a child being dressed. Now I watched, both fascinated and amused.

Almost as quickly, the smile drained from my face. I had yet to determine whether my son suffered from mitral valve prolapse. Though none of the physicians who'd examined him to date had found any cardiac issues, I needed verify for myself that he was free from disease.

"Look who's here," Louisa cooed to the baby as she saw me cross the threshold. "It's your daddy."

James let out a giggle and my heart let me believe it was at the sight of me, even though my head told me Louisa was probably tickling him as she closed up his shirt.

"Can I see James for a moment? I want to check him over." I refused to let my examination wait another hour. If it revealed a problem, I'd take James with us to Truro and have him seen by a pediatric cardiologist. If I found nothing amiss, one major burden would be lifted from my mind.

Louisa's eyes filled with concern at my words. "You want to check him over?" she repeated, cuddling our son closer. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I heard him wheezing a bit last night," I lied smoothly, not prepared to share my concerns with Louisa. "I just want to check that he's not developing a respiratory infection." As I spoke, I reached for him and watched as Louisa somewhat reluctantly released him into my arms.

"Alright, James," I said soothingly, settling him onto his back on the bed and lifting up his shirt. "I'm just going to have a listen to your chest. It won't hurt."

I warmed the diaphragm of the stethoscope in my hand for a few seconds before placing it on my son's chest. I tried to keep my own heart from racing as I listened carefully to his. My focus was on the apex and, when I failed to hear the midsystolic click characteristic of mitral valve prolapse, I allowed my body to relax slightly.

"Martin?" Louisa asked in that hesitant, high-pitched tone she used when worried. "Is he alright?"

I held up a hand to silence her as I moved the stethoscope and continued to listen. After nearly a minute, I stood up and released the breath I'd been holding. "He's fine," I said with a smile. Well, for today at least. The condition that afflicted my mother often didn't manifest until adulthood, so James was not completely out of the woods. Still, the fact he was healthy now and that mitral valve prolapse was significantly more common in females gave me hope.

"His lungs are clear?" Louisa asked.

Oh, right. His lungs. "Um, yes," I said and hoped our child didn't suddenly develop a pulmonary infection that would prove me wrong.

"I'm so glad. He's up enough with his teething. The last thing he needs is a cold as well." She took James from me and held him up in front of her, legs dangling. "Isn't that right? Can't have you sick, can we?"

Now that I could stop worrying about James, I focused again on Louisa. Although it was still early in the day, to my discerning eye, she looked exhausted and her skin unnaturally pale.

This had gone on long enough. "Louisa, I'm concerned about you. You don't look well."

"Martin, I'm fine, just a bit tired. Having your mother here is . . ." She put a hand on her hip and gave me a petulant look. "Did you know she demanded a blueberry scone to eat with her tea? Of course we didn't have one, so James and I went down to the bakery. They had no scones so I got her a pastry." Her eyes flashed at me. "You should have seen her expression when I showed it to her. You'd think it was poisoned."

I sighed with frustration. "I saw it. She hasn't touched it."

"Not even a 'thank-you'. Just turned up her nose."

I wasn't surprised; gratitude had never been one of my mother's strong suits. "I agree my mother at times lacks . . . civility. But I was speaking about _your_ health. Have you made an appointment with Dr. Bates?"

"No, Martin," she said with obvious resignation.

"Then why don't you let me have a quick look at you?" I was quite certain Louisa was suffering from another bout of anemia, but there were more sinister explanations for her symptoms and I'd feel better once they'd been ruled out.

"Martin, you agreed Dr. Bates would handle my medical care."

Yes, I had. Foolishly, I now realized. "Then, promise me you'll make an appointment with him. Today," I added.

"Alright. But he's only going to tell me I'm tired."

"I hope so." I snorted in my victory. "I hate to leave, but best to get on the road. I don't want mother to be late for her appointment." After giving James's hand a tight squeeze and kissing Louisa on the forehead, I descended the stairs.

Mother was still at the table and, if anything, her posture was even stiffer than before. The first thing I noticed was that the stupid pastry was half-eaten and tried to fathom what had enticed Mum to forego her aversion to sweets.

As I stepped further into the room, I noticed my mother was staring intently at something in her hands, so engrossed that she didn't even look up at the sound of my heavy tread on the floorboards.

I cleared my throat loudly to announce my presence. "Mother, it's time to leave."

She still didn't move, didn't even turn at the sound of my voice.

"Mother," I said more loudly, tentacles of worry starting to creep over me.

I heard a sharp intake of breath and came around the table to see what had so captured my mother's attention and to ensure she wasn't having yet another attack.

When I could finally see what she was holding, it was my turn to suck in air. In my mother's fingers was a letter – a letter I recognized as the birthday party invitation from my father's illegitimate daughter.


	11. Chapter 11

**Authors Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter Eleven**

Mother held out the letter with shaking fingers. "That bastard! That bloody bastard! I always suspected that he…" She stood and threw the letter to the floor and trod on it. "That… nasty rat… he…" she stopped and wildly began to suck air as she fell back onto the wooden chair.

Her eyes looked up pleadingly at me as I rushed to her side.

Mum sat clutching her chest in apparent discomfort. I dug two fingers into her wrist and felt a racing pulse. It was fast, very. Mum's eyes stared at me, the whites of eyes tremendous as she gasped for breath rapidly.

"Martin?" she squeaked out. "Help me?" Tears ran down her withered cheeks in a steady stream.

Louisa stood right at my side as I'd heard her clatter down the stairs. She plucked at my sleeve. "Shall I call 9-9-9?" She was biting on her lip in her way of expressing uncertainty.

"Paper sack!" I yelled.

That shocked Louisa. "What? Oh for the…" But she stretched out an arm and pulled a paper bag from the sink counter.

I ripped it from her, snapped it open and forced it onto mother's face. "Breathe into this."

Her scared eyes narrowed. "Martin?" she asked in fear. "I'm dizzy as well!"

"Do it! Breathe! Slowly." I forced the bag over her nose and mouth and held it there.

Louisa nodded. "Right! Just when Mrs. Cronk had collapsed…"

"Shush!" I commanded.

Mum started to follow my instructions and her racing pulse notched downward as her breath was recirculated in the bag.

"Am I dying?"

"No!" I told at the foolish woman. "Not dying! You are _not_ dying _nor_ having a heart attack. You are hyperventilating. Rapid breathing disrupts the normal oxygen and carbon dioxide balance of the respiratory system. Breathing very rapidly results in an excess of oxygen in the blood stream. This will cause respiratory alkalosis, due to acidification of the blood, from an increase of pH in the bloodstream. The alkalization causes your blood vessels to constrict, reducing blood flow and thereby making you dizzy. Are your hands tingling as well?"

Mum nodded her head. "Sick to my stomach too!" Her voice was muffled by the bag but I heard her quite clearly.

"As I thought." As I watched her breathing was now much slower and color was coming back to her cheeks. "There! See! She's doing better." I said to Louisa.

"Nausea is another significant finding. Breathing into a paper bag reduces the over-oxygenation by adding carbon dioxide to the air she is taking in. That will reverse the alkalization and send her blood chemistry back to a neutral pH – around 7.4."

"What's _wrong_ with her? Maybe we'd better call for help?" Louisa held the phone at the ready.

I screwed my lips tightly together before my words came out. "Panic attack. Panic attack brought on by stress or a shock."

Saying this I felt like a child with my hand caught in the biscuit jar. Louisa and the rest of the village knew all too well _exactly_ _why_ I knew so much about panic attacks, since I had them as a nearly constant companion since I became the GP in Port Wenn.

Mum clutched at my sleeve. "Ambulance might be best?"

Louisa answered for me. "Martin is a doctor!" She bobbed her head emphatically. "A fine one! Very lucky to have him here in the village. Why I could tell you stories about how many people he's saved and patched up and as for panic attacks, why… uhmmm… well… he… our doc knows a lot about them, right?"

Thankfully she caught my eyes boring a hole in her skull and she shut up, adding a faint "Sorry, Martin."

Louisa then drew a glass of water and held it out to mum but I took it and downed it myself.

"Thank you." I needed the water for as I was describing the symptoms of a panic attack, I felt one coming on myself. It must have been the look of fear and despair in mum's eyes that set it off, as there was not a speck of blood visible, although I was supposed to be over all that or so I hoped. "Please get a blanket and pillow. She should lie down on the sofa."

Margaret nodded and her eyes showed thankfulness over the rim of the crinkled paper bag. "How am I doing Martin?"

I looked down at the woman who had neglected me, locking me in the cupboard under the stairs as a boy more than once, shipped me to boarding school, and allowed me to be bullied at every turn. I breathed deeply, knowing that I could stand there for hours recalling all the nasty things she had done to me; she and my contemptible father.

And the worst thing of all had occurred right here in my kitchen as she sat in the very same chair and told me that by being born I had ruined her marriage and that I had never been wanted. _Never_ been wanted.

As a surgeon and consultant I had been trained to not show any feeling and to reduce a patient to the bloody surgical field under my gloved hands and tools; being merely a collection of biology. Parts _not_ patients one of the teachers had yelled at us time and again. That is the only thing that saved me right then.

I carefully donned my surgeon armor to keep from crying out for at that moment I wanted to scream out all the hurt and frustration over the years - all of which _still_ affected me. To my credit, I merely pulled the now damp sack from her mouth. "Better?"

She breathed easily and her panicky look was long gone. Margaret touched my hand. "Thank you Martin."

I only nodded as I did not trust myself to speak further.

Louisa came back straight away with the items I asked for and we smoothly tucked mum onto the sofa, where she lay like a limp china doll.

"Tea?" my fiancé asked mum but Louisa stood by the telly and wrung her hands with a lost look.

Silence thankfully fell on us as I looked down at my mother. Margaret now lay there silently crying clutching a pillow like a sailor with a life ring tossed from a lifeboat in a tempestuous sea.

I knelt by her. "Mother? Mum?"

She ignored me and buried her face deeper into the pillow.

Louisa came to my side and put her soft hand on my neck. "Margaret! Margaret?"

Margaret came up for air. "Yes dear?" she asked faintly.

Louisa patted her shoulder. "Don't take on so."

"Oh?" Mum raised herself on an elbow. "And I suppose you have perfect parents, that it? Or never had anyone cheat on you?"

Louisa's mouth fell open but she rose to the occasion. "That is none of _your_ concern!" she shouted. "And another thing, Margaret Ellingham! You are a guest in our home and…" she reached out and squeezed my hand. "Your son is a very fine man and we are _trying_ make a life together here. Further, I really don't appreciate any crappy comments about me, my father or my mother! Get it, lady?"

"You sound just like Christopher, you know," mum said.

"I do?" Louisa sounded shocked. "In what way?"

"Oh, the way he could be so very logical at times. Not a bit of emotional distress, unlike that last moment, though." She said this sweetly but there was life in the old girl yet.

I rolled my eyes at that and Louisa saw my expression.

"Oh… well, thanks for that! Even if it was a back handed compliment," said Louisa. "Not certain some sorts would call me logical," she said with sarcasm as well as a dash of humor.

I crossed my arms and stared at the two women - one that I despised and the one that I loved. I sighed as they were _both_ part of family. I jabbed a finger into mother's neck for a quick pulse check. "Pulse feels ok. We'll be leaving to see the cardiologist soon."

Margaret rolled onto her back and looked at the two of us hanging over her.

"Martin? I sincerely hope that you are not quite as abrupt and rude to this young woman as you seem to be around everyone else. Based on the delicious noises I heard last evening from down the hall," she cleared her throat and her eyes twinkled somewhat, "and through two closed doors, I suspect that you are more than just house mates and this joint son of yours is more than just an accident?"

Louisa gave me a wary look as I cleared my throat.

"Well?" asked mum who was now leering up at us. "Are you going to tell me more about your relationship, or are you going to keep deep dark secrets just like your father, Martin?"


	12. Chapter 12

The Visitor

By Portwenn Hydra

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

Chapter 12

My mother gave Louisa and me an expectant look as she waited for an answer to her question. "All you need to know mother, is that Louisa and I are engaged," I took my fiancée's hand, "and that she is the mother of our child." Mum was sitting up on the sofa, and seemed to have recovered from the panic attack triggered by the birthday party invitation sent to me by my father's mistress daughter. It lay on the floor where she left it, rumpled and torn after she crushed it in a fit of rage. I picked it up and said, "You shouldn't be reading other people's mail, Mother. It's obviously not good for your health."

She looked at me with a malicious glint in her eyes. "There is something you should know about the daughter, Martin. Actually, I'm rather surprised you haven't figured it out, considering your famed diagnostic skills."

I must have appeared perplexed because she asked, "You have no idea? I guess I'll have to be the one to tell you," she sighed, as one resigned to the execution of an unpleasant task, but a thin smile played on her lips. "Christina is your father's illegitimate daughter. One of the trollops he cavorted with was her mother."

I heard her words, but it took me a moment to comprehend what she was saying. "This Christina woman is my half-sister?"

"Good for you, Martin. You figured it out," she answered scornfully. I looked at the torn invitation in my hand and then back to my mother. "How long have you known? Why haven't you told me this before?" I nearly bellowed.

"No need to shout, Martin," she replied. "I found out after the divorce. Christopher made a point of flaunting her in my face, telling me one of his mistresses produced a child he could be proud of." She paused and gave me a disparaging look. "Unlike you."

Before I could respond, Louisa took a step forward and snarled, "How dare you say such horrible things to your son? He's gone out of his way to help you, even though you don't deserve it." She was shaking with rage and I placed one hand on her arm in an effort to calm her. "It's all right, Louisa," I said quietly.

I turned to my mother who now stood by the sofa and snapped, "That's enough! Get your coat. It's time to leave for your cardiology appointment."

"Do I really need to go see this doctor? I'm feeling rather tired after all this excitement." She patted at her hair, disheveled from the exertion caused by her earlier outburst.

I glared at her. "Dr. Devadathan is fitting you in at my request. So yes, you bloody well are going to see him today."

Mum opened her mouth to speak but closed it again, knowing full well she would cause me to truly lose my temper if she said another word. We both watched as my mother walk out of the lounge and Louisa waited for her to be out of ear shot before muttering under her breath, "Bitch!" She looked at me anxiously. "I can't believe your father kept silent about this for all these years." Her eyes searched mine as she continued, "Are you going to contact," she paused, "your half- sister?"

"No. I have no desire to meet this woman or see my father ever again." I crumbled the invitation sitting in my hand and angrily tossed it into the rubbish bin.

James was taking a nap in the travel cot in our room and he chose that moment to wake with a loud wail.

"Sounds like it's time for his next feed," said Louisa. She placed a hand on my cheek and kissed me. "I'm worried about you," she said softly. "Call me when you're on the way back from Truro," and she was gone.

I was still reeling from my mother's bombshell, and stood in the kitchen for a moment to collect my thoughts. My first reaction had been to deny the existence of my father's illegitimate daughter, but the more I thought about it, the more the story rang true. Christopher was a philanderer and a liar; it should come as a surprise to me that he fathered a child with one of his mistresses and kept it a secret.

I sighed and slipped on my overcoat before going to my consulting room. Despite the upheavals in my private life, I still had a surgery to run. I quickly look through the faxes that had arrived since lunch and thankfully saw that none of them were urgent. As I was about to leave the room, I remembered the letter from Louisa's father, still tucked away in my desk drawer. I retrieved the envelope and hoped it might shed some light on the mysterious Angus Fletcher, and the unorthodox terms of Louisa's inheritance. I had misgivings about the validity of the whole affair, knowing it was somehow linked to Louisa's father, who was serving time for petty theft and explosive trafficking at a prison in Devon.

It wasn't my place to open a letter addressed to Louisa, so I left it on the kitchen table, propped up against the baby monitor. She was sure to open it as soon as she saw it, and I plan to ask her about its contents upon my return from Truro.

My mother was waiting for me by the front door. Her hair was once again immaculately coiffed but she had applied a thin layer of rouge that only managed to highlight the creases lining her face.

I settled her in the passenger seat of the car and I drove out of the village towards Truro. We came upon Havenhurst and mum said in a flat voice, "I never liked it here." My mother and her sisters in law, Joan and Ruth, had never been on good terms. When I was a child, my aunts never came to our house in London, and if I were to see them, it was either at Ruth's flat or at the farm, which for me had place of refuge from the harsh treatment and not so benign neglect liberally bestowed on me by my parents. I suddenly wondered who this Dennis was, standing next to Aunt Ruth in the photo I found amongst other items in the box my aunt brought to the surgery from the farm. I asked my mother, and she

turned to me with a look of ill-concealed surprise. "How do you know about him?" she asked sharply. Before I could respond she looked out the window and said, "I haven't heard his name spoken in years." I waited for her to continue but she remained silent. "Was he a friend of Ruth's? I prompted.

"I don't want to talk about it, Martin," she answered tersely. More secret's, I thought. How many of those were rattling in the Ellingham family closet, waiting to see the light of day?

I drove on, preoccupied with my own thoughts. I toyed with the idea of a sibling in my mind, trying it on for size. I wondered about her. Did she have blue eyes like mine? What did her voice sound like? These questions would remain unanswered, as I continued to have no intention of contacting her.

I concentrated on the road as we approached Truro. We were almost at the Royal Cornwall hospital when my mother turned to me and said in a plaintive voice, "I would much rather see my GP on Harley street, Martin. This," she waves at the passing townhouses and shops lining the streets of Truro, "is not what I'm used to."

I had managed to keep my anger in check but it now threatened to spill over and engulf me. "Mother, have you forgotten that you've been ordered by the police to stay in Cornwall, or should I also make arrangements for a psychiatrist to evaluate your short term memory?"

"That's all a misunderstanding," she answered blithely. "Armando will take care of that little problem for me."

"Like he took care of your investments," I answered, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Mother, your former lover," I almost choked on the word, "Is wanted by various anti-terrorism agencies for providing laundered funds to rebels in East Timor. Some of that money is probably yours, which means you are an accomplice to his crimes. And because of you," I continued, "There are police men coming around the surgery asking questions and upsetting my family."

Louisa had been shaken by the appearance of Inspector Davies, thinking at first he was there about her father. She had rallied somewhat after finding out he was after mum, but it had made me wonder how many times police officers had darken the family cottage's door when she was a child.

"Is that all you care about, Martin? That school teacher and the baby?" she asked quietly.

I glanced at her, and noted how frail she suddenly looked but I couldn't bring myself to feel sorry for her.

"Yes. And I will do anything to protect them," I answered in a tone that brooked no argument.

I parked in the area reserved for visiting physicians and I escorted my mother through the main doors of the hospital to the outpatient services department. Dr. Ajit Devadathan's office was spacious and well appointed, befitting his status as chief of cardiology. Mother registered with the receptionist and before we had a chance to sit, Ajit came out of his office to greet us.

We had first met when I was chief of vascular and he a consultant at St. Mary's, and I had been delighted when he took the post at the Royal Cornwall a few years ago. Since then, we had shared many patients and had even co-authored a review paper on a new blood thinning drug for patients with atrial fibrillation. He was at least 15 years my senior, but the only thing that gave away his age was a spattering of grey mixed in with his dark, short cropped hair.

"Martin!" he said with a smile. He reached to shake my hand and then turned to mum. "And this must be your mother." She gave the cardiologist a dubious look and I quickly spoke before she made a disparaging remark. "It is. She had what appears to have been a panic attack a few hours ago."

My mother looked at both of us in turn and said curtly, "I'm standing right here, you know."

"Of course you are," said Ajit, in the same tone used to placate small children. He started to usher my mother towards his consulting room and turned to me. "This may take a while. She will need an ECG and a cardiac ultrasound in addition to my exam." I nodded and hoped it would. The peace and quiet of the hospital library was beckoning me, and I looked forward to a few hours of reading the latest journals and answering emails. I loved that Louisa and James lived with me at the surgery, but it afforded me very little solitary time, something that I was accustomed to after having lived by myself most of my adult life.

I left my mobile number with the receptionist and asked her to ring me when my mother was done with her appointment. The library was adjacent to one of the medical wards and I walk down the corridor, assiduously avoiding eye contact with anyone that walked my way. I was in no mood to be waylaid by the blithering staff, as they were likely to bother me with questions that could be answered with a modicum of research and common sense.

There were a cluster of white coated registrars near the nurse's station and I stepped aside to avoid them. As I did so Reverend Higgins, the vicar of Port Wenn parish, was coming the other way and I had no choice but to acknowledge him. He uncomfortably reminded me of the vicar that presided over my religious education at boarding school, and I shuddered at the not so fond memory of hours spent in his drafty classroom as he carried on about fire and brimstone.

"Doing your rounds, Dr. Ellingham?" he asked. He was holding a list of hospitalized parishioner's in one hand and a bible in the other which was partially concealed by the flowing sleeve of his black cassock.

"No, here on personal business," I replied and started to walk away.

"Actually, I was going to stop by the surgery on my way back to the rectory."

"If this is about a medical problem, call my receptionist to make an appointment."

"No, it's nothing like that. My secretary tells me Ms. Glasson called this morning inquiring about a wedding date." He gave me an appraising look with his beady eyes. "Apparently she stated time was of the essence."

I scowled at him and said, "She's not pregnant, if that's want you're insinuating." Of course, the activities of the night before might give me cause to rescind my words and I felt a slow blush creep up my face as the image of a scantily clad Louisa flashed through my mind.

"You can't blame me for assuming that any request for an expedited wedding is due to the unforeseen circumstances you mentioned," said the vicar.

"If you must know, Ms. Glasson's request has to do with the terms of an inheritance left to my fiancée by a friend of her fathers."

"So you're marrying for money?" he said, quivering with indignation. "I'm afraid I can't help you if that's the case."

"Of course we're not marrying for money," I snapped.

"Regardless, considering what happened the last time you tried to get married, I think both you and should consider enrolling in the marriage preparation course offered by the church."

I wasn't certain if he was referring to the fact that neither Louisa nor I showed up at the church on our wedding day or that I managed to break the vicar's hip while wrestling a bottle of whisky from the intoxicated tosser's hand, but under no circumstances would I consent to attend any sort of marriage preparation course.

I was about to tell him this in no uncertain terms when my mobile rang.

"Ellingham," I answered.

"Martin, this is Ajit Devadathan." He sound flustered, which immediately told me something was wrong. "You have better come to my office straight away. There are two police officers here claiming they have a warrant for your mother's arrest."

I let out an expletive that shocked the Vicar into silence. If Inspector Davies had anything to do with it, my mother would be joining my future father in law as Her Majesty's guest in Devon.


	13. Chapter 13

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

I walked out of the police station more frustrated than I could ever remember being, which is saying something given the infuriating non-compliance of so many of my patients. The evil-smelling Inspector Davies was now in possession of a European Arrest Warrant for Mum issued by the Portuguese authorities and signed by the Home Office. As Penhale had repeated endlessly over the course of the last two hours, the police now had no choice but to take the "international fugitive" into custody immediately. I should not have expected better, I guess – he was just being his usual moronic self. Officious little oaf.

The idea that the elderly and imperious Margaret Ellingham somehow constituted an international fugitive was beyond comprehension, at least to me. The WPC at the police station had apparently no trouble believing Mum was capable of inflicting grievous bodily injury upon one and all and had taken no chances. My last glimpse of Mum had been of her being fingerprinted none too gently with an expression of extreme distaste on her face. I could only imagine what it was going to be like when she was actually in a cell.

I sat in my car and leaned my forehead against the steering wheel, absolutely exasperated by the experience. I needed to locate a solicitor to help get her out of this mess – one with connections to the sort of barrister that defended international extradition cases. I had no idea where to even begin looking for someone fitting that description, least of all one in Truro, and I not-so-silently cursed my mother for adding this to the litany of burdens she had so unceremoniously dumped on my shoulders.

After a few minutes reflecting on the chaos that was my life, I realized I had been away much longer than Louisa would have expected and that she might be worried. And, if I really examined my feelings more than I was generally inclined to do, I missed her and wondered how her first day as my fiancée was going.

As I pulled out of the car park, I rang Louisa's mobile, mindful of using the blue tooth connection to keep my hands free for careful driving. It took two rings more than usual for her to answer, and I grew anxious waiting. It was stupid of me, really. There were a hundred reasons why she might not answer immediately – James might need her, she might be on another call, she might have her hands full of groceries or laundry or homework booklets to mark. Still, I held my breath just a little until I heard her voice.

"Hello?"

I frowned when I heard her. It was not her usual cheery greeting. She sounded distant, almost, well, foggy.

"Louisa? Are you feeling alright?"

"Oh, Martin, it's you." There was a long pause. "I'm alright. I must have just drifted off here over my marking . . ." Her voice trailed off and I worried some more. It wasn't like her to fall asleep in the afternoon, although she had clearly been experiencing fatigue lately. In addition to that, there was the loss of appetite, nausea and some mild diarrhea she had finally admitted to me when we discussed a visit to Dr. Bates. I vowed to redouble my efforts to get her checked out as my concern was growing that this was something more than just a passing virus.

"Where are you?" Then another alarming thought crossed my mind. "And where is James Henry?"

"Oh." She sighed. "I'm, er, here at school. At my desk. James should be at home. With Amanda. He should be fine. I just wanted to finish up marking these geography exams. I've been very disappointed. Not one child correctly identified the Amazon as the longest river in Africa."

My jaw dropped. "Louisa," I said gently, trying not to alarm her. "There must be a mistake. The Amazon isn't in Africa."

I could almost hear the gears working in her head. This wasn't like her at all.

"Oh, you're right, of course you're right," she said brightly, almost too brightly. "I must have, I don't know, muddled up the answer sheet somehow. Well I am very relieved they didn't all get that one wrong then."

"Louisa." My heart ached just a little for her – I would feel much better if I could see her, touch her, diagnose her. "Perhaps Amanda can take James out in his pushchair so you can have a little lie down when you get home." As always I was grateful for a nanny who never minded staying a little late. She had come through in a pinch more times than I wanted to recall.

"Right. That sounds good. See you soon then." It sounded like Louisa was going to say good bye, but then she added, "Martin, I almost forgot. How is your mum? You didn't say. Did everything with her heart check out?"

"Well I was right about her heart, but there have been some other developments. I'll fill you in when I get home."

"I hope nothing's wrong. Did they admit her to hospital?"

"No, nothing like that." I paused for a moment. "Louisa? Can you remember the name of that solicitor you dealt with in Truro? About that inheritance matter? I need to engage someone to assist my mother with her legal troubles and wondered if he could make a recommendation."

"Oh, yes. Mr. Carson, I think it was. Let me look – I have the paper in my handbag. Yes, here it is. His name is Clive Carson. The firm is Carson, Peabody and Rourke. Do you want the number?"

"Yes, I'd better take it." I had to start somewhere.

X X X X X

When I arrived home, Amanda was just coming in with James, who was sound asleep in the pushchair. She informed me that Louisa was resting upstairs. I thanked her for her troubles and sent her home to her own sons while I carried mine up to our bedroom where his travel cot was waiting.

Despite my efforts to be quiet while I put our son to bed, Louisa awoke with a start and sat up in the semi-darkness, looking around in some confusion.

"Oh, it's you," she said with a sigh of relief.

"Louisa." I sat down on the bed beside her and took her hands in mine, gently running my thumbs over her palms. She looked up at me through a curtain of her silky chestnut hair and I swallowed hard, overcome with love for her. She looked so beautiful and so vulnerable in that moment.

With infinite care, I took her beloved face between my hands. I ran my forefinger over her soft lips before dipping my head to kiss her. She murmured my name against my mouth before wrapping her arms around my neck to pull me closer to her. I breathed in her scent – sweet shampoo and spicy perfume and chalk and starch and baby formula and something else that was all her and reminded me always of home.

As my hands moved from cupping her face to tangling in her glorious hair, her sly tongue licked my bottom lip, and I groaned just a little before opening my mouth and deepening the kiss. As our tongues collided, I tasted the usual milky tea and the hint of a chocolate biscuit that I tried to ignore. But there was another taste too, a metallic tang; strange and yet somehow familiar too. I'd tasted it before but not in this context. My mind was whirring.

I kissed her again, plundering her mouth until – yes, there it was. Blood. Her mouth was bleeding somehow - just a tiny bit.

Suddenly the pieces fell into place. What a fool I'd been! How could I have missed the signs?

By now, Louisa had noticed that she no longer had my undivided attention. She took my face between her hands. "Martin – where did you go? Is something wrong?"

I looked at her face, really looked at it, taking in the pallor and the circles under her eyes that indicated fatigue. I recalled her self-described "funny tummy" and her slight air of confusion on the telephone this afternoon. There was no question I was right.

"Come to the surgery with me," I said, standing up and taking her hand.

She looked perplexed and perhaps also disappointed. "Now? You want to stop now?"

"I need to draw blood for the laboratory and give you an injection."

"Martin! You are my . . . my fiancé, NOT my doctor. And we were . . ."

"But Louisa, you have a vitamin deficiency. Vitamin B12. That's why you're feeling so rotten. A quick blood sample to confirm, an injection now until we can get you some tablets to take, and you'll feel much better. Do you really want to trek to Wadebridge for that?"

"How on Earth did you come to that conclusion NOW? When we were, well, you know what we were . . ." She blushed furiously.

"Your mouth tasted like blood a little bit when I kissed you," I admitted. "Bleeding gums are a common symptom of B12 deficiency," I added, trying to be helpful.

She turned even paler than before. "You are telling me I tasted of . . . of blood? And you kissed me again . . . what . . . to be sure?" She looked horrified.

"It was only faint. No risk of blood loss. And I am glad I noticed it – this is very treatable."

I had expected her reaction to be one of relief – to be told that her symptoms added up to something easily treated and with no lasting consequences. I was perplexed at the anger that seemed to be bubbling up inside her, threatening to transform our discussion into a full-fledged row.

"Martin Ellingham – if you're going to marry me, you'd better stop trying to diagnose me in our bedroom. I won't have it." And with eyes blazing, she flounced down the stairs towards my surgery.

X X X X X

After supper, while I was sitting at my desk finishing up some patient notes and Louisa was putting James to bed for the night, my mobile rang with an unfamiliar number.

"Ellingham."

"Dr. Ellingham – it's Clive Carson. How are you this evening?" His voice was jovial. I had no idea what he looked like but his voice made him sound like some kind of geriatric elf. I pictured a wizened face and tufts of white hair to go along with the breathless, gravelly chuckle.

"Er, I'm well," I answered, by rote at this point. "But my mother . . . what have you found out?"

"My colleague, Benedict Roarke, has been permitted to visit with her and while she is quite, shall we say, displeased with her current accommodations, she seems to be fit and quite vigorous in her assertions of innocence."

I could only imagine. "Go on."

"Well they won't question her further without Ben being present, which is a good thing, I think. They plan to transfer her up to London for her evidentiary hearing – that will happen nearly immediately. We will want to have her barrister in court for that. Then it depends on what the Portuguese complaint says and whether your mother has any defenses to extradition. If not, then we need to get counsel in Portugal to advise as what happens in the courts there." He made it sound as simple as a game of croquet though to someone like me it was anything but simple.

"Can't we get her out – post bail or something?"

He chuckled deeply. "Afraid not. Courts don't often grant bail to those who have already fled one country where they faced charges. She'll be considered a flight risk, no doubt about that."

"I see," I said glumly, not seeing at all, still not comprehending how my mother could be considered some kind of terrorist. It was a nightmare, a total nightmare.

"I do have some good news for you, Doctor Ellingham."

Hope, just a glimmer of it, crept back into my mind. "Oh? And what would that be?"

"Ben has connections to THE pre-eminent barrister for these kinds of cases. She's a leading expert on international extradition cases – been involved in quite a few since 9/11. She's at Lincoln's Inn, a QC now and all that, though she made her name first when she handled the case of the Decapitator of Dubai alone and without a leader. She's based in London, which is convenient for the hearing, but she's in demand for cases all over the UK. By all accounts she's a compassionate woman, a real pleasure to deal with, but whip smart and well versed in the law. Ben was at uni with her – I think he might still carry the torch for her, if you know what I mean, though she's married, took her husband's name. Anyhow, Ben's sure he can persuade her to take the brief if you want him to."

"Er, what is her name? You have to understand I need to make some enquiries of my own." I didn't mean to sound defensive but this cheerful country solicitor was nearly unknown to me and I realized that while he sounded so very reassuring, I had no idea if he knew his arse from his elbow.

"Of course, of course. Wouldn't dream of having you do otherwise. She's called Christina Wimmsley Evers – has her chambers in Equity Court."

I frowned when he said her name. I'd heard that name. And recently, though I couldn't remember where. Had I read about her on the news? She couldn't be a current patient if she were based in London – had I treated her at St. Mary's years ago? I wished again that I could remember names as facilely as I recalled the chemical compounds in various medications.

"Alright – I'll make some calls, get back to you tomorrow. Will I be allowed to see her? Mum, I mean?"

"We'll see what we can arrange. It depends on when they are taking her up to London. I'll ring you back in the morning with more details."

"Yes, right. Speak to you then."

I hit the end button on my mobile with my mind racing. Where had I heard of this woman? I booted up my laptop and launched the internet, calling up Google and typed in her name. I hoped I was spelling it correctly. Ah, yes, ten thousand hits – this must be her.

I clicked to open the first entry, an article from the Times about a football hooligan wanted for smashing heads at a match in Hamburg. The article called her an expert and covered her impressive list of credentials at some length. Somewhat reassuringly, she had apparently kept that knucklehead from being sent to Germany on some very technical grounds. Perhaps the geezer in Truro was on to something.

I opened the next hit. My heart seemed to stop when I saw her photo and I remembered immediately who she was. I now found myself looking at a female version of myself, my womanly doppelganger with her blonde hair liberally sprinkled with grey, intense blue eyes, my father's nose and my grandmother's jaw. She could only be one person - my father's by-blow, the daughter of his mistress, the hostess of the damnable birthday party, my own illegitimate half-sister. The face staring back at me was that of the one child my father reportedly felt he could be proud of.

A hiss escaped my lips as I silently cursed both of my parents.

Legal Glossary

WPC – woman police constable

European Arrest Warrant – if properly issued, it is an expedited way to get jurisdiction over an accused criminal or fugitive who has left one European country for another.

QC – Queen's Counsel, a honor designating a senior barrister.


	14. Chapter 14

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Author's Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter 14**

The hiss I emitted was replaced by the sound of an insistent knocking at the surgery door and the unmistakable voice of Tommy from Tommy's Taxi shouting: "Doc, are you, there? Doc, open up."

It was near nine and the last person I wanted in my surgery pleading a medical emergency was the imbecile who nearly poisoned himself with ersatz biofuel. Squaring my shoulders and suppressing my annoyance, I hurried to the door and threw it open. For the second time in as many days, Tommy had arrived bearing one of my parents. There stood my father, the illustrious Christopher Ellingham, who had set this fiasco in motion.

"Dad," I exclaimed, too surprised to utter more. "That'll be another 16 quid, Doc. Christopher here claims he forgot his wallet in London. We've heard that story before, init?"

Automatically, I handed a large note to Tommy, too stunned to take the few small bills he held out in return. "Thanks, then, Doc. This makes up for the other day. Nice chatting with you, Christopher. We'll see you at the Crab."

With only one foot inside the door, my father said: "Have you a decent malt, Martin? I need a drink after listening to that chap for the last hour."

"What are you doing here," I unceremoniously asked.

"To fetch your mother, of course. Ruth phoned saying she had been tossed up on your shores, and that you were none-too-pleased about it. More likely, it was Ruth who was upset at the sight of Margaret. Those two have been at it since that business with Dennis Fletcher – what – 50 years ago. Ruth and Joan were always ones to dredge up ancient history.

"Well then, the taxi chap said Margaret was staying here with you. I'm sure she's retired early – beauty rest and all that. Shall I stay here or go on to the Port Wenn Hotel? Your choice, son."

Son! Before my outrage could be manifested toward the adulterer who was not fit to claim me as a son, my mobile rang, and I pointedly took the call, bellowing "Ellingham." On the other end was Ben Roarke, who sounded equally miffed himself.

"Sorry for the late call Dr. Ellingham, but Clive Carson said this was an urgent matter. I've managed to talk with the London barrister, but she's caught up in a family emergency at the moment. She's put me on to her associate who will sort out the charges against the detainee. He'll phone you as soon as your mother's situation is clarified. In the meantime, if I can be of service, please contact me. However, I assure you that Ms. Wimmsley Evers is the best for your mother's – um - problem. She's a first-rate barrister, and your mother will find her very gracious and compassionate. You've nothing to be concerned about with Christina."

No, nothing at all to be concerned about. Only my father's illegitimate daughter being placed in the unsavoury role of saving my mother, the very woman cast as "the wronged wife" against her mother as "the other woman."

"Come through to the kitchen, Dad, we have to discuss this now." Retrieving the whiskey bottle from the recesses of a cupboard, I discovered Louisa's secret stash of chocolate biscuits and sighed in exasperation for yet another reason. "Mum's being held in a Truro prison, and it's quite serious. I've just spoken with a solicitor who's helping to mount her defence."

"Oh, good Lord, Martin. What's she done now? Can't be much. It was always just the sparkling broach here and there, the bag, the scarf, occasionally perfume. Did she pinch the things in Port Wenn or Truro? I'll pay for them and she'll be on her way."

Indignantly, I nearly shouted, "No, it's not the odd pinching of perfume. She's involved in international money laundering with Fernando DeSoto."

"You mean, Armando DaSilva? That bastard. What's he done to **_my_** Margaret?"

I briefly explained the charges against his ex-wife, but he did not seem to comprehend their gravity. To my amazement, he withdrew a mobile from his breast pocket saying: "Let me phone her London solicitor and psychologist. They've sorted out her kleptomania for years. The charges can't be all that different."

Before I could re-iterate to Dad that the two crimes were orders of magnitude different, he flipped open his mobile saying: "Oh, bother, I've had the bloody thing switched off. Let me find their numbers….." Seconds later the mobile rang loudly.

"Ellingham" he bellowed, much as I had earlier. "Oh, sorry, dear girl, I must have switched it off on the train. Only now noticed your calls. Well, no need to worry. No, I didn't just wander off, I came to fetch Margaret. I told David I was off to Port Wenn. Well, yes, I do realize that David's five years old and may not have been the best one to tell, but you seem to have wormed it out of him.

"I've just now arrived. Well, yes, at my son's surgery. He told me Margaret's been detained in Truro. No, not the usual - something with international money laundering. Well I'm not sure what I mean. It's what Martin's told me. Shall you speak with him?" Turning to me, Dad said: "Christina wants to chat with you son."

Somewhat unnerved by the prospect, my hand shook slightly as Dad handed me his mobile. Blast! - I had dropped it to the floor. Picking it up, Dad exclaimed: "Mind this now, Martin. I press a button and Christina we'll be back in a flash. Quite ingenious!" This time, I did not miss the handoff, and after three rings, a woman bellowed: "Evers!" in a deep contralto voice.

Following her brusque greeting, we launched into a business-like discussion of my mother's detention and the little information I had about it. With the second sentence I uttered, she realized that my mother was the very detainee, Ben Roarke had described to her earlier that evening. "Sorry, Dr. Ellingham, obviously I should have connected the names when I spoke to Ben, but I often think of clients as cases not people. In my mind, your mother was the "Portuguese extradition," rather than – well - her proper name."

"Ellingham, her name is Margaret Ellingham," I impatiently stated. "My father – I had to resist saying 'our father' - seems to think this is something as simple as her apparent shoplifting habit."

"Yes, he's told me about her kleptomania. Of course, it arose from the OCD caused by her fear of abandonment. One can understand how she developed such a phobia. Her mother leaving her at age 6 with a Naval officer father who left her to any half-willing relative when he was called to sea duty. Must have been a horrid childhood for her. I can certainly understand why Christopher felt trapped in their marriage. But he could not bring himself to abandon her once again. He was never certain of what it would do to her.

"This must be ancient history to you, Dr. Ellingham. I'm certain he's told you of my mother, his operating theatre nurse for those many years. Mum was so very different from your mother – very strong, independent, able to make her own way in the world. Christopher told me that's what he admired most about her. He never felt burdened by the need to take care of her. It was only in the last few months of her life that your father did, literally, take care of my mother.

"By then, your mother had divorced him in favour of her Portuguese lover. Christopher searched out Mum in London soon after she was diagnosed with breast cancer. We tried every treatment, but it had metastasised to her lungs. After Mum's funeral, Christopher told me it had been his privilege to care for Mum in the last months of her life. He and the hospice nurses were wonderful. But I needn't tell you that, Dr. Ellingham. You know your father better than I do.

"Because of his devotion to her at the end, I was stunned when he filed a suit claiming ownership of the flat. It was so unlike the man I had only gotten to know again. There was a bit of other erratic behaviour – confusion, depression, forgetfulness. I finally persuaded him to see an Iranian neurologist, whose father was a Bahai religious leader I once represented. His diagnosis was mild cognitive impairment, and he recommended treatment with donepezil to stave off the early symptoms of Alzheimer's. Christopher rallied quite nicely after that - except for his abrupt leaving of London today."

In five minutes' time, this woman – this Christina woman - had told me more about my parents than I ever knew or suspected. Worst yet, she seemed to think I was aware of it all. But I knew nothing. My mother's childhood and the resultant phobia; my father's free discussion of his troubled marriage, his care for her mother, his incipient Alzheimer's. It was all a revelation to me, so I let her prattle on.

"At any rate, Dr. Ellingham, Christopher's doing well for the moment, and we must now turn our attention to your mother. Indeed, my associate is researching the legalities, but it may be that your mother's phobia could provide a possible defence of mental incapacity. She has been treated by a psychologist for years, and I will be contacting her in the morning along with Mrs. Ellingham's London solicitor. They will be critical to her defence.

"Now that I've found Christopher safely with you, I'll be able to work with my associate tonight and devise a strategy. Please be assured that your mother is in very capable hands, Dr. Ellingham. I know she means a great deal to you. I'll say goodnight to Christopher and then crack on with it."

My mind reeling, I handed the mobile to my father. He happily chatted with Christina and wished her "pleasant dreams," a wish I knew would be long-delayed as she had much work ahead of her.

"Dad," I began, determined to understand this Christina Wimmsley Evers business immediately. But then I saw his face. He was not yet ready for the discussion. "Let it rest for the night, Martin. We'll talk in the morning. Christina will take care of your mother's problems. She's a brilliant barrister, just as you're a brilliant doctor. I'm proud of you both. When all is said and done, I'll take Margaret back to the flat in Chelsea. If you can manage the remittance you've been sending, that and my pension will see us through. No need to do more."

Nodding my head, I said, "Yes, Dad, we'll speak in the morning."

"Martin," he looked at me a bit sheepishly, "Christina's husband entered the phone numbers for me, but I've never quite learned out how to retrieve them. Could you find the numbers for your mother's solicitor and psychologist. I must ring Christina with them in the morning."

Nodding my head, again, I took up a pen and paper ready to write out the numbers for my father as he handed his mobile to me. "What are the names then, Dad?"

"The barrister's Seymour, and the psychologist is Varga-Nagy."

To be continued


	15. Chapter 15

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Author's Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter 15**

I realised that my understandably horrified reaction to discovering that Christina Wimmsley Evers was my half-sister had been somewhat premature and unreasonable. After all, it was not her fault that my father had had an affair with her mother, and as I now found myself in the position of having to deal with her, I discovered that she was actually not a bad sort. The fact that she was a highly qualified QC practising out of Lincoln's Inn, and was eminently suitable and also willing to mount a defence case for my mother no doubt eased my initial revulsion towards her.

Christina assured me that whatever the charges brought against my mother with regard to the money laundering accusations, there were very strong grounds for declaring my mother unfit to stand trial. This would be on the basis of the psychologist Varga-Nagy's report about her phobia and OCD which had already led to her kleptomania, and now I could also refer Christina to Sen Devadathan, Mum's cardiology consultant to provide her with details of her medical condition, which would also lend weight to her case.

So it was with great relief that I decided the most sensible course of action for now was to let Christina deal with the legal side of things as she was undeniably the expert in that field.

However, we still had to endure my father spending the night here in Cornwall, before he returned to London where my mother was shortly going to be transferred to.

"Louisa. This is my father," I quickly explained as Louisa appeared from upstairs where she had been settling James.

"Christopher Ellingham. Delighted to meet you," my father said as he looked at Louisa appreciatively and proffered his hand.

"Louisa Glasson. Martin's partner," Louisa answered, looking somewhat bewildered at the unexpected appearance of yet another of my unwelcome relatives as she shook his hand.

"Dad had come down to collect my mother, but he'll be returning to London now that we know that she is going to be transferred there shortly to stand trial," I hastily explained.

"Oh, how…why…what has happened now?" Louisa was clearly very confused and having trouble in keeping up with events as she didn't know all the latest details of what had occurred with my half-sister.

"I'll fill you in later. I'm just going to take dad down to the pub and check him in there," I quickly explained as I picked up dad's suitcase.

I certainly didn't want Louisa worried or concerned about the appearance of my father – she really needed to rest until the treatment for her Vitamin B12 deficiency kicked in. I was planning to try and persuade her take some time off work to recuperate. She could surely let Emma Greenway, who was her deputy, run the school for a week or so – she'd told me several times how efficient she was, how she wanted to develop her as she saw potential in her. Well now was the perfect opportunity surely?

So I quickly ushered dad out of the door before he could raise any objections or cause any further problems.

xXx

Having got my father settled down at the pub, thankful that they had a room available for him, I returned home, feeling pretty exhausted by all the turmoil. As I walked in, I discovered Louisa sitting at the kitchen table reading the letter on Dartmouth Prison paper from her father. She looked pale and upset.

"Oh Martin, I think you'd better read this for yourself," she said as she handed the letter over to me.

_My Darling Louisa,_

_By now I expect you have found out about the bequest left to you by Angus Fletcher, and no doubt you are wondering why he would leave everything to you, a complete stranger. _

_I wish this had not come out of the blue for you, that I had had a chance to explain things to you first, because I've always known this day would come. I should have told you all about this years ago, but I never found the courage to do so._

_You see, your mother and I didn't have the happiest of marriages as you no doubt know only too well. I'm afraid during a particularly rough patch between us, she had an affair when she was swept of her feet by a very charming and wealthy older man. His name was Dennis Fletcher. It was 1970, and he'd come down to Cornwall with Ruth Ellingham – she'd been his longstanding girlfriend on and off for years, seems he wasn't the type to commit to getting married. She was visiting her sister Joan Norton for a while, but then Denis and Ruth had a row and split up, something to do with his inability to be faithful was what I heard at the time. There were even rumours that the row was because he'd had an affair with Ruth's sister in law Margaret, but I don't know if that was true or not. Ruth went back to London, but Dennis stayed on and his brother Angus came down and joined him – they both liked sailing I believe. _

_Dennis was a serial womaniser, and he quickly set about seducing your mother. Eleanor was a very beautiful woman, that's where you get your looks from of course. For him she was just a distraction to pass the time in this quiet little village, but she really fell for him. Your mother and Dennis embarked on a mad and passionate affair. I knew about it but was powerless to stop it – I just hoped she'd come to her senses because I didn't want to lose her. As I hoped, it turned out to be a very short lived affair, just a holiday romance as far as he was concerned, but Eleanor was devastated when he left, leaving me to pick up the pieces._

_To cut a long story short, about a month after he'd left, your mother found out she was pregnant. I knew I couldn't be the father because your mother and I hadn't been close for some time, if you catch my drift. _

_She wrote to Dennis to tell him, but he didn't want to know. Blamed her for getting herself pregnant. She was in a terrible state, so I looked after her because I still loved her despite everything. Everyone assumed the baby was mine, so I just went along with it. And once you were born, you __**were**__ mine, I fell in love with you instantly, and from then on you were __**my**__ daughter, and that was the end of the story as far as I was concerned._

_Then about a year ago, I was contacted by Angus Fletcher who had managed to trace me, having had no luck tracing your mother - of course that was because she was out of the UK in Spain. I'd been in the newspapers because of my criminal activities, so that made me easier to track down. He wanted to know what happened about the baby his brother had fathered all those years ago, as it seemed this would now be his only living relative – Dennis passed away some years ago. It turned out that Angus was very ill, he'd been diagnosed with terminal cancer. He'd ended up a wealthy but lonely, reclusive old man living on the Isles of Scilly with no family._

_He didn't want you to know about any of this until after he'd passed away, I think because he was ashamed of his family's behaviour towards you. He'd known his brother had got your mother pregnant, but had simply turned a blind eye, hadn't wanted to get involved. He told me his conscience had been troubling him ever since and that he wanted to set things right as best he could by leaving everything to you._

_So that's the explanation for your inheritance my darling girl. I hope you don't think too badly of me for never having told you any of this before, but I couldn't bear to admit that I wasn't your father, and as the years passed I managed to push it all to the back of my mind. I know I haven't exactly been a perfect father, but never doubt that I have always loved you._

_At least now I have the comfort of knowing that you never have to worry about money again, that's something that your biological father's family can at least do for you, to help to put things right. _

_I expect you will have some questions, so maybe you can ask them on your next visit to see me here in Dartmoor._

_Your loving Dad xxx_

I looked in astonishment at Louisa.

"You had no idea about any of this?" I asked, as I handed the letter back to her.

"No, not a clue. I just can't believe it. Hang on a minute, what did you do with that box of old photos Ruth brought down?"

"Err, I think it's in the shed. Why?"

"Can you get it please Martin?"

Although puzzled by this request, I did as Louisa asked, retrieved the box, and watched in bewilderment as she rummaged through the contents.

"Aha! Here it is," she announced triumphantly as she produced a photo of a younger Auntie Joan, Uncle Phil and my parents standing next to Aunt Ruth and a dark haired man. Someone had scrawled at the bottom: "Joan, Phil, Christopher, Margaret Ruth and Dennis. May 1960. London."

"So if this is all true, this man here must be my biological father," Louisa declared as she studied the old photo intently and pointed out the dark haired man. "Can you see any resemblance?"

"Oh for goodness sake Louisa, it's just an old blurry photo," I protested as I looked at it.

"Well there is one person who may be able to shed some light about all this Martin. Can you give Ruth a call and ask if she could possibly come over?"

"Louisa, it's already quite late, and I really think you ought to get some rest, maybe pursue your enquiries tomorrow?" I suggested.

"Do you honestly think I'm going to be able to sleep until I get a few answers about all of this? If you won't ring her, I will," Louisa insisted with a determined glint in her eye.

"Very well," I sighed, as I took my mobile from my breast pocket and selected Ruth's number from my list of contacts.


	16. Chapter 16

**The Visitor**

**By Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter Sixteen**

I wasn't entirely surprised when my call to Aunt Ruth went directly into her voicemail. She might be out late or, more likely, had turned off her mobile and retired for the evening. I recalled her once explaining that one of the benefits of living in Portwenn was the lack of criminally insane patients requiring her services at all hours of the day and night, so there was no need to rush to the phone every time it rang – or even keep it turned on for that matter.

I suggested to Louisa that we phone Ruth again in the morning and once more tried to convince her to come upstairs to bed. It had been an emotionally exhausting day for both of us, and tomorrow would undoubtedly bring more of the same.

"How can I sleep with all that's happened?" she asked, giving me a plaintive look. "And how can you sleep for that matter, what with your mother and all?"

For me, it wasn't all that difficult. In my years as a registrar, I'd trained myself to sleep whenever the opportunity presented itself, which as a junior surgeon, was infrequently at best. For better or worse, I had the gift of being able to shut off my mind completely when necessary. In doing so, I'd learned that problems which seemed insolvable in the dark hours of the night often seemed much clearer with the dawn of morning and a well-rested body and mind.

"There's nothing I can do for either of my parents tonight. Ms. Wimmsley Evers will handle mother's case and I'll sort out my father in the morning. And as for you . . ."

I forced the sternness out of my voice as I stepped around the table and placed my hands gently on Louisa's shoulders. "As for you, you need to get some rest." I'd given her an injection of B-12 earlier in the day and would stop by the chemist in the morning to pick up some vitamin tablets. I'd also need to get her an appointment with Dr. Bates. Although I was confident in my diagnosis, we'd agreed that Louisa would receive her primary care from the Wadebridge GP and it was important for him to be aware of and monitor this new condition.

She shrugged off my touch. "Martin, I've just learned that the man I thought was my father – who _has_ been my father – for my entire life, isn't really my father at all. And you expect me to say, 'oh well, that's alright,' and go to bed?"

"I'm sure the news has come as a shock. But there's nothing you can do about it this evening. And worrying about it will only be harmful to your health. Stress exacerbates a vitamin B-12 deficiency and makes your symptoms worse."

She ignored my common sense approach and twisted around in the kitchen chair. "How would you feel if you learned one of your parents wasn't really your parent after all?"

My first that was that, at this point, with all that had gone on in the past days, I'd probably welcome such news.

Before I could form a coherent verbal response, Louisa continued speaking. "My mother cheated on my father, who isn't really my father at all. And my real father is dead, his brother has gifted me an enormous sum of money, and my mother lied to me over and over – right to my face as recently as only a few weeks ago."

"Louisa, please." I knew this was the moment I was supposed to be strong for her, to stand by her and all that. As much as I wanted to be, the practical side of me – hell, the medical side of me – knew that there was no benefit in spending the next few hours discussing a situation that neither of us could change.

Instead, I said, "Let's go to bed, get some rest, and in the morning we'll speak to Ruth and sort it all out."

"There's no 'sorting it out,' Martin." She thrust her father's letter toward me. "If what's in this letter is true, how can I sleep? How can I ever sleep?"

"Would you like me to get you a mild sedative?"

"No, Martin! I don't want a sedative. The fact that my parents lied to me for my entire life is not a medical problem. And for God's sake, stop treating me like one of your neurotic patients."

I mentally frowned. Had I been treating her as a patient? I didn't think so. I was only trying to help. "A good night's sleep is the best thing for you right now."

She turned on me, eyes blazing. "Is it? You think so do you?"

I stupidly ignored the obvious signs of her displeasure and nodded once. "Yes, I do."

"Well you don't always know what's best for me. I'm an adult, Martin; I can think for myself."

This wasn't going at all well. I instinctively knew I should sit down and let Louisa talk it all out, as she was wont to do. But I was tired, tired of dealing with the stress caused by my own family, let alone hers. I needed to sleep and to think. My rational side recognized that Louisa and me needed to get some rest and tackle our problems again in the morning.

"So," I said, allowing a hint of frustration to creep into my tone. "You won't be sensible and come to bed."

"No, I'm going to be sensible and stay here and think. You obviously don't care about what's happened but I do."

Louisa was once again misinterpreting my words and actions, something that still happened with some frequency. And tonight, I hadn't the energy to stay here until it was all sorted.

"Suit yourself then." With a slight snort and a pointed sigh, I walked out of the room without looking back.

Sometime later that night, I simultaneously heard and felt Louisa slide into bed beside me. Despite my best efforts, sleep had escaped me and I'd spent the last hours staring at the ceiling and ruminating on the events of the day. Several times I'd considered going back downstairs to try again with Louisa. Each time, I stopped myself. I wasn't any good at talking about feelings and personal issues and the like and, anyway, she'd made clear that she needed to deal with whatever demons that were vexing her. There wasn't much I could do to help her with that.

For a moment, we both lay there, side by side on our backs, not touching. After a moment, her breathing became regular and I was wondered whether she'd finally managed to fall asleep. Suddenly, I heard a soft sniff. And then another.

"Louisa?" I asked tentatively, turning slightly in the bed. Even in the semi-darkness, I noticed that her eyelids were swollen. Good Lord, she'd probably been crying the whole time. "Are you alright?" I asked tentatively, trying my best to not make it sound like a medical question.

"I'm fine," she answered in a small voice that made clear she wasn't fine at all.

I pulled her closer. "Louisa?" I said softly.

"Oh, Martin. I don't know whether to be hurt or angry or relieved I know the truth or . . . I just don't . . ." She sniffed even louder and then, without warning, started to sob loudly.

I had no idea what to say, so I did the only thing I could think of to do. I reached over and curled her tightly into my body, her back pressed against my chest, my arm keeping her close. I held her like that, gently stroking her shoulder, her arm, her face . . . held her until her crying finally ceased and she fell into the uneasy slumber of the distressed.

* * *

><p>The following morning, I arose early, showered, shaved and was out of the house well before my surgery opening hours. Louisa had stirred slightly at my movements, but I'd only be running a few short errands and was content to let her sleep for a few more minutes, until James Henry awakened her.<p>

As I strolled through the quiet street of a village that had yet to fully come alive, I grimaced as the familiar band of roving teenage girls rounded the corner and headed toward me, most likely on their way to school. I rolled my eyes in anticipation of whatever nasty comments they'd manage to come up with today.

"Did you her about the Doc's mom being locked up in the gaol?" one of the girls exclaimed quite loudly.

Her comment was rewarded with several snickers. "Saw PC takin' her away in cuffs."

The girls were now upon me and all of their voices garbled together.

"I bet they did a strip search," one of them said, giving me a pointed wink and I inwardly recoiled at event the thought of such a thing being visited on my mother.

"What do you think, Doc?" asked a redhead.

I had the unprofessional thought that I'd like to make their next visits to my surgery as unpleasant as possible. Instead, I pushed past them without answering.

"Maybe they'll give her the cell next to Miss Glasson's dad," someone called out behind me. "Like a family reunion."

It took me only a few minutes to reach my first destination.

The young chemist, Mr. Pruitt, greeted me from behind the counter. "Good morning Dr. Ellingham. How can I help you this morning?"

I was in no mood for false cheer from the Danny Steel look-alike. "Vitamin B-12 tablets. 1000 micrograms. 30-day supply." I barked out the words. The amount I'd requested would be more than sufficient to take care of Louisa until she could see Bates.

"Ah, a case of B-12 deficiency, I presume," he said, stroking his chin. "Given compliance issues with oral medication, why are you choosing tablets over the injections, if you don't mind my asking? "

"I do mind your asking." And Louisa would have no issues with compliance, at least not as long as I was around.

Pruitt frowned at my response. "I'm only trying to increase my professional knowledge, Doctor."

"Then do it on someone else's time. I'm busy."

"Yes, I guess with all that's going on with your mother—"

"My mother's situation is none of your business." I held out my hand impatiently. "The vitamin tablets."

After leaving the shop, I placed several calls from my mobile, including one to Christina Wimmsley Evers and one to Aunt Ruth, before arriving at the pub. There I found my father at one of the tables enjoying a full breakfast. My eyes narrowed with disapproval at the large platter of cholesterol and saturated fat, masquerading as poached eggs, bacon, and a hard white roll. As I watched with mounting frustration, he lathered the roll with butter and popped it into his mouth. Hadn't he learned anything from his sister's coronary?

"Ah, Martin!" he greeted me with a smile that I didn't return. "Top of the morning to you. I was just telling Mike here—" He waved toward the proprietor before downing a large piece of egg. "Telling Mike here," he continued, "how wonderful the weather is in Cornwall, all this fresh air." He breathed in with exaggeration. "None of that fog and smog of London."

I was thankful that my father was actually still at the pub. I realized that, given his incipient dementia, I'd been tempting fate by leaving him here alone, especially without assuring myself that he was being compliant with the donepezil. Had he wandered off . . . with all that was going on, I didn't even want to think about the potential consequences. For now, I needed to get him and my mother back to London where, with some luck, Ms. Wimmsley Evers would sort out both their situations.

Dad now pointed at his food. "Care to join me, Martin? It's not The Dorchester, but it'll do."

"No."

"Oh, come on."

"I've booked you on a noon flight to London. I've arranged for your—" I couldn't quite bring myself to say the word "daughter." I took a breath before continuing. "Your mother's solicitor will meet your flight."

"What about your mother? She's still in . . . jail." He almost spit out the word.

"There's nothing you can do for her here. Her solicitor has informed me that she'll be transferred to London today or tomorrow."

"I want to see her. And she needs to see me."

"She needs to see her solicitor, which she'll do once she arrives in London."

"She _is_ my wife."

_And quite the devoted husband you've been, _I thought as I bit back a nasty retort. "And you can best support her once she's back in London."

"Are you trying to get rid of me? I'm your family."

I bit down on my lower lip and measured my words carefully. "I have a family – Louisa and James Henry. You and mum are – _apparently, I mentally added, given the events of the past week_ – my biological parents. Unfortunately, that leaves me with a moral, if not legal, obligation to see to your welfare. But make no mistake, you are _not_ my family."

"So," he said, standing up from the table and facing me. "That's it then."

For some unknown reason, I felt the need to explain myself. "I'll do my best to see that mum doesn't spend the rest of her life in prison and that you . . . . get the care you need."

"Well, I suppose we should both be grateful that our son isn't putting us out on the street," he replied sarcastically.

Before I could formulate a reply, a soft voice spoke behind me. "Given your conduct, you should be grateful, very grateful indeed."

I turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Aunt Ruth had arrived.


	17. Chapter 17

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

Chapter 17

Christopher bristled when he heard his sister's voice. "Oh, you've come. I thought I smelled the stench of sulfur! Ride in on your broomstick, have you?"

Ruth turned to me. "Martin, I see that you father is his typical _charming_ self," she snarled at her brother. "Have you come to fill your child's head with fairy tale stories about how he was the light of your life? Hm? Or are you here to sponge off of him like your ex-wife Margaret has?"

"Auntie Ruth, don't," I said, seeing my dad get quite puffed up.

Christopher curled his lip. "Oh push off, would you Ruth?" He turned and yelled at the proprietor who was refilling the coffee urn. "Is it too early for a whiskey? I need one. A whiskey?"

The pub man shook his head. "Nope." He retreated to the kitchen and I distinctly heard the word "_tosser_" get uttered before the spring loaded doors swung shut.

Ruth unbuttoned her raincoat and sat opposite her older brother and faced me. "Martin you'd better sit down. I think that there are some things you _need_ to be told."

"Oh, not that rubbish!" said Dad. "Have you no…" he stopped. "What is the word? Shoes? Shampoo? Sheep?" he snapped his fingers. "Lost it. Ah – shame? Yes – shame!"

I gave my aunt a knowing look as loss of words was part of my father's deterioration.

"Oh?" Ruth crossed her arms. "_You_ talk to _me_ about shame?" Her right index finger was poised like a spear ready to pierce. "You?"

Dad waved her off. "Bah!"

I stepped into the fray. "Auntie Ruth, I didn't call so you and Dad could get into a family argument! I wished to ask you…"

Ruth looked up at me. "As I said, you'd better sit down. This will not be pretty."

"What's this about?" I asked and Ruth turned her lined face again to mine.

"Martin, this is a tale as old as the hills."

"Bah!" Dad said then went back to staring into space.

"You need to know, Martin, that at one time your father and Joan and I were very close." She sighed. "Long ago and far away, Chris?"

"We should go to the surgery. This is too public," I said looking around the empty pub.

She sighed. "You go ahead Martin. I'll put Chris's case in my car and drive him over. I'll even volunteer to take him to the airport, if it will _hasten_ his departure." She ended with a grin.

Dad sneered at her. "You always did have a bossy way about you."

Ruth smiled. "How else can I counter your charming personality Christopher?"

I left and stomped back to the cottage, where a rumpled Louisa was in the kitchen hovering over a glass of orange juice and a piece of dry toast. She startled as I came in. "You're up," I observed.

She yawned and stretched, her dressing gown going tight across her bust line and I could not but help notice that my heart beat faster at the lovely sight. Her hair was damp so she had just showered. "Yeah. I really needed sleep. Martin about last night…"

"Louisa, uhm, I didn't want to talk… about…" I hesitated. "Your situation..."

"It's ok, Martin. Nothing I can do about it now or you either." She yawned. "James is sparko after I fed him."

I heard the sound of a car outside. "That will be Ruth and Dad. You'd better dress. Some more skeletons are about to emerge from the Ellingham family closet."

Louisa leapt to her feet and rushed upstairs just as the kitchen door opened as Dad and Ruth came in. Ruth was guiding Dad with a hand on his elbow and the old fellow did look a bit off.

"Sit down there, Christopher," she said. "Is Louisa about?"

"Upstairs, getting dressed."

Ruth groaned. "I may as well wait until she's come down."

I poured out tea for them and after several fretful and silent minutes, Louisa appeared. She'd hurriedly dressed in jeans, a white blouse and trainers. She had put on makeup and pulled her hair into a pony tail which looked very nice, but she always looked very nice, or so I thought.

"Louisa," said Auntie Ruth. "I was starting to reveal a family secret."

"More like tragedy," grunted my Dad.

"Oh?" Louisa had a scared look but it seemed fatalistic as well. "I do know a little _something_ about family tragedies."

Ruth sighed. "Here's the way it went. Joan ran off to Cornwall for an adventure and met Phil Norton. A good man was Phil and a good farmer as well. There was not a thing that Phil could do except for one thing."

"What was that?" I asked.

"He couldn't get your aunt pregnant, Martin, try as he might. Phil and Joanie, bless their souls, in spite of living out here in Cornwall did try to keep up the family connections, not that your mum had _any_ intentions of ever treating her sister-in-law fairly." Ruth continued.

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Martin…" said Dad, "your mother is not the easiest person to deal with, but you know that. She's a snob."

I nodded. "Present actions included."

Ruth shook her head and put her crooked grin on her face. "And there was a time that I was not quite the _single_ and decrepit female that I am today. I did have a long time boyfriend and his name was…"

"Dennis Fletcher," spat out Dad. "That bastard!" He beat his hand on the table. "Should have hit him again!"

"Dad, you punched Dennis?" I shouted in shock.

"Indeed I did." Dad rose and strutted about the room. "I should have done it earlier too!"

Ruth tried to placate him. "Christopher, please! It was a very long time ago. Now sit."

Dad checked his watch. "You'd better make it quick! Isn't there an airplane waiting for me at noon?" He sat down with a grumpy expression and began to hum once more.

Ruth sighed. "Yes. Well a long time ago I was dating Dennis Fletcher. He'd been hanging about since my college days."

"Hanging about?" asked Dad. "You and he were," he motioned with his hands clasping them together, "very close."

Ruth cleared her throat. "That's one way to put it. My parents were none too keen on your Aunt Joan marrying Phil the farmer, as father always called him. But I did make an effort to see her on those off times I could travel here, or when they came up to London. But school was difficult in those years, with my training and so forth."

Louisa went to the lounge and brought back the photo of my parents, Joan and Phil and Ruth, along with the stranger, where it was in a stack. "About this picture, I had some questions."

Ruth took it from her and stared for a few seconds, then touched the blurry image of the dark-haired man. "Oh God. There's Dennis," she whispered. "I didn't know this was with the others."

"In the box of photos you brought by," Louisa said. "Do you want to tell us about him?"

Ruth sat in her chair her face gone white. She put the picture on the table tenderly. "I will. Dennis was a good man, mostly." She looked at her brother.

Dad grunted as he sat stiffly on the chair toying with his tea. "Played a mean hand of Bridge."

"He was a teacher and a writer; always talking about how he was writing a novel," Ruth went on. "But I never saw any real evidence of it. He did scribble away in a wire-bound steno notebook at times. Never would show any of us what it was."

"Us?" asked Louisa who had now taken a seat by me. As I awkwardly draped my arm across her shoulders, she tipped her head to me and whispered, "Thanks Martin." She held my knee under the table.

Ruth brightened. "Martin's parents, Joan and Phil and Dennis and me. We'd get together once in a while, when we could. Dennis really liked Cornwall, rambling along the trails, those long legs of his eating up the ground in a rapid pace. In fact Louisa, he had the same build as you. Tall and slim with dark hair," she choked a little as she said the last.

Louisa sat up straighter. "He did? I do?"

"Yes," Ruth went on. "Terry Glasson wasn't that tall. Generally the height of a child is somewhat of an average of the parent's stature." She grimaced. "But back to Fletcher. He and I were together for a long while. Dennis took to coming down to Cornwall on long weekends, when he wasn't teaching. He said he enjoyed the _birds_. Funny thing though, he never carried a camera or a pair of binoculars. Very strange." Ruth finished this statement with a decided sardonic tone. "A different sort of birds, if you know what I'm saying."

Dad grunted. "Tosser."

Ruth sighed. "Yes he was," she said and dabbed at an eye. "Hay fever's been terrible this year."

"Ruth," I cleared my throat, "stop for God's sake."

My aunt shook her head. "It should be no surprise to you Martin, that the Ellingham's have been less than lucky or skilled in love. Your Aunt Joan found a man she loved deeply, who could not give her children; he had mumps as a young man. Your parents had you and struggled with the result and their responsibilities. And I, let's just say that I _always_ chose _unwisely_."

Silence fell like a thick blanket of snow as I considered the wreck of my family history. According to Terry's letter Dennis Fletcher was Louisa's father and who else's? And my Dad had fathered two children. I sighed.

Ruth touched my arm. "Martin, sorry to dump this on you. Here you and Louisa are trying to get on with your lives and start out James on his and these old bugaboos surface to ruin your parade."

"Tell me more." said Louisa. "I want to hear it."

"You _are_ sure?" Seeing a nod from Louisa, Ruth continued. "So while I was in London studying and working Dennis was here during his free time. For many years he spent summers here, renting a cottage that was torn down when they built the car park at the top of the hill. That is the times when he _needed_ a cottage if he wasn't shacking up with someone, but that came later." She sniffed.

Louisa asked, "Can you tell me what happened?"

"It's the same old story. The biological urge." Ruth cracked her neck as she peered at us. "None of this means anything now. But Dennis, I found, was not very _conventional_ when it came to monogamous relationships." My aunt stared at Louisa and her mouth quivered. "Oh my dear, this _will_ hurt. Are you sure you want to know more?"

Louisa shook her head violently from side to side. "I already know."

"How's that?" Auntie Ruth queried. "Which one of the village gossip mongers has been filling your pretty head?"

Louisa bit her lip and spoke. "I got a letter from Dennis Fletcher's brother and from my dad, I mean Terry." Her lip quivered, but she held her back straight and tall and I loved her for her courage. "So I know."

"The cat's out of the bag." Ruth's face now had a different look; one that was sad. "Dennis is dead you know. Coronary."

"That tosser!" Dad spurted out. "I should have hit him twice!"

"Auntie Ruth _why_ do you feel the need to dredge up what was an obviously a difficult time for you?" I asked her. "Why not let it drop?"

Ruth smiled at her. "Because, Martin. There is a little person upstairs who should know…" she cleared her throat. "Who his family _is _and _how_ it got that way."

I looked at Louisa willing her to get up and leave the room but she sat resolute.

"Ruth, I…" Louisa's voice shook, "I know that Dennis is my father."

"Oh," said my aunt and stretched out her shrunken arm to take Louisa's hand.

Louisa rubbed the withered hand in hers. "Yes. Oh."

Ruth took a deep breath. "_You_ could have been _my_ daughter, you know. But Dennis had other ideas and your mum Eleanor was the recipient of his attentions." She sniffed. "But that's the past." She sighed. "I was always too busy and he never wanted to marry. Better that it's forgotten after this, I think." She dabbed at an eye.

Dad chimed in. "That bastard was after Margaret as well! That's why I slugged him! Always chasing after Margaret with some excuse about showing her the back garden, or looking at his new car, or at his…" He balled his fists. "Good thing the man's dead."

Suddenly I felt a warm flush fill my face and the world whirled. "Dennis Fletcher was chasing mum?" I turned and stared at Louisa with extreme caution and shock. If Dennis was Louisa's father and he had been after my mum… My head lifted up and my gaze bored upstairs to where our son was blissfully sleeping through this family horror story. If Fletcher had a roving eye then it was _possible_ that we were… God! Was our son James the product of a relationship between a half-sister and a half-brother? Sweat broke out on my forehead just as Louisa shifted her hand from holding Ruth's to mine.

Louisa gasped. "Martin? Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Oh my God! What about James!" She then thrust my hand away and started to rub her arms in a panic.

"Martin!" Dad shouted just then. "There is no way that Fletcher is _your_ father, if that's what you're thinking! That's why I bashed the beggar in the nose and gave him a kick in the arse for good measure!" Dad yelled. "Besides… I did a paternity test on you. His voice fell. "Sorry, boy. But you _are_ my son. Damn bad luck for you!" he chuckled.

"So then…" I started to say as Ruth interrupted.

"Oh, Martin do the math, would you? You were born in 1965. After Christopher fought with Dennis, I couldn't very well keep taking him around your mother!" She tapped the black and white picture. "This was taken in 1960, years before you were conceived by Christopher."

Dad nodded his head. "Yes. It was a rainy night. There was a lot of wine…" he stopped and cleared his throat. "But you don't need to know that, do you boy?"

Louisa's posture relaxed. "I was born in 1974… so…"

Ruth sighed once more. "That was the last straw, when I found out how many times that Dennis had strayed and that Eleanor Glasson was pregnant by him. We weren't married – he didn't want to be, for obvious reasons. There was one time I thought I might be pregnant, but it was a false alarm; a road not traveled." She shook her head at us. "He even made a play for Joan I'm pretty certain about the time that Martin stopped coming here in the summer. Dennis got a teaching job in Belgium round about then. And that was the last I saw of him when I put him on the ferry." She stood and looked down at her brother. "Christopher, I think we have done quite enough damage for one day don't you?" She looked at her watch. "We'd best be going if I'm to get this old fool to his plane."

"Not his fault, Auntie Ruth. The dementia, I mean," I told her.

Ruth turned red-rimmed eyes at Louisa and me. "You two _should_ take my advice. Forget all this pish posh and live your own lives." She looked about the neat kitchen. "I think you've got a good start. Come Christopher, time for the old people to go."

As I helped Dad stand and shuffle towards the door, Ruth went to our pantry and cracked the door open. "How's the dog doing?"

I smelled the odor of dog rise from the small room. Buddy looked up at us from the plush doggy bed he slept in now, which replaced the carton Louisa had made up weeks back.

"Oh, he's fine," said Louisa having recovered from the shock of a near miss about a near incestual relationship. She bent down and rubbed Buddy's head. "Good boy, aren't you?"

"How's his paw doing? I heard about how he took down those two snoops who were digging for treasure up on the headland as well as at my farm." Ruth knelt down and petted the little dog. "You know the farm is not the same without him. Sometimes he'd go roaming all about and I swear he was looking for Ruth. Poor thing."

Buddy woofed and although I did not care for the dog, I had the oddest feeling at times that he was _watching_ me; watching me very intently and trying to tell me _something_. Totally Bodmin thought on my part of course.

"His paw is all healed, thanks to Martin." Louisa said. "He'd have made a fine vet."

I sneered but stayed silent as I stood in the doorway bracing my Dad who gone wobbly. The dog barked once more and now stood, wagging his tail furiously.

"What are you looking at?" I snarled. The dog ran to my side and standing on hind legs put his front paws on my knee. "Get off!" I yelled and the others laughed. The animal dropped back to the floor with a doggy grin as I brushed at my trousers. "I can't believe that he's living here."

Auntie Ruth smiled. "Martin, he reminds me of the stray that used to follow you around Joanie's farm. Remember him? But you were only six years old."

Louisa smiled. "Martin had a dog?"

"My dear, _we_ don't have dogs, _they_ have us," uttered Ruth in a solemn tone. "Come on Chris. Let's get you back to your usual territory. Louisa, I am sorry about all this…" she waved an arm in circles, "kerfuffle."

Louisa, to her credit, kissed Ruth's lined cheek. "Thank you for telling me."

"Louisa, I think that you are of sterner stuff than most," pronounced Ruth and I felt pride fill my heart hearing those words. Aunt Ruth took Dad's arm and steered him to the door.

I held the rear door open and waited for them to leave.

"Boy?" asked my Dad pausing in the opening. "I am sorry for…" His arm took mine briefly and then it dropped away.

I could only nod dumbly as Ruth took him out as I closed the door behind them.


	18. Chapter 18

The Visitor

By Portwenn Hydra

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

Chapter 18

Louisa and I lay in bed snuggled under the duvet, her back nestled comfortably against my bare chest. I nuzzled her neck, and the sweet scent of her hair pleasantly tickled my nose. She stirred from a half sleep, and turned to face me. "You're still awake?" Louisa asked, stroking my cheek with the back of her hand. "I'll have to work harder at wearing you out next time." She grinned mischievously, and a smile played on my lips at the memory of our recent lovemaking.

Tonight I had reached for her with a desperate need born from the events of the day, and she had responded in kind, her body moving eagerly against mine.

It had been a long and exhausting day for both of us, starting with Aunt Ruth's convoluted tale about Dennis Fletcher and ended when my father suddenly developed slurred speech while I was driving him to Newquay airport. I floored it to the Royal Cornwall in Truro, called the A & E, and told them to expect a seventy five year old male who was in all likelihood, having a stroke.

The scans and tests ordered by the marginally competent registrar showed that Dad did indeed have a stroke to the left part of his brain. He rallied enough to avoid an admission to the high dependency unit, and was allotted a bed on the medical ward.

After sorting out the consultants, I left him in the care of the ward sister, a rather dour but competent woman. He wasn't pleased with his assigned nurse and, in spite of his speech impediment, managed to

ask if I could pull a few strings as to find him a more attractive one. I bluntly told him I would do no such thing, and left him pouting over a supper tray of clear broth and weak tea.

I called Ruth on my way back from hospital to tell her about Dad, and she suggested that I call Christina Wimmsley Evers. What the hell for, I retorted; her concerns were with my mother and her extradition case to Portugal. Ruth remained silent for a moment and then said gently, "He's her father as well, Martin."

Of course he was. I disconnected the call with Ruth and pulled the car to the side of the road. I leaned against the seat, and idly watched the dusk gather over the moor before picking up the hand set to place a call to my father's daughter, who was by an accident of biology, also my half-sister.

I gathered Louisa in my arms and whispered, "I guess I'm not quite worn out yet." As her lips met mine and my hand strayed to the soft rise of her hip, I heard a scratch at the bedroom door followed by a high pitched whine. She pulled away with a murmured "Sorry," slipped on her dressing gown and walked across room to open the bedroom door. I scowled as Buddy ran in the room and jumped on the bed, his beady little eyes looking at me with triumph.

"Louisa, get that filthy animal off the bed! It's one thing to let him live in the kitchen, another to give him the run of the house!" I exclaimed, swatting at the dog who was doing a good job of avoiding my hand by dancing about on the bed. Louisa scooped him out of harm's way and said, "Now, now Martin, he's really very sweet." She gave the smelly canine a cuddle before gently placing him on the floor. "I think it's good for James Henry to have a dog about the house."

"James is it too young to care about such things," I responded, eyeing the creature with disdain.

"I'm not so sure. Anyhow, I'll take him back downstairs and check on the baby. Come on Buddy," said Louisa. It dutifully followed her, and I watched them leave knowing there would be no recapturing the mood ruined by that overly pampered four legged flea bag.

I pulled on a pair of pyjama bottoms, and climbed back into bed. If the last few nights are any indication, sleep would be a long time coming as I worried about the legal fee's incurred by my mother's extradition hearing and Louisa's state of mind over this Dennis Fletcher affair. I hadn't quite come to grips with the intricate threads that ran through both our family histories, and shuddered to think that because of Fletcher's roving eye, Louisa and I could have been siblings.

I picked up a journal from the bedside table, and was forcing my attention on an article describing parasitic skin infections when Louisa returned, carrying two cups of tea. I dropped the journal but not before she saw the photo of a particularly bad case of scabies, and grimaced as she handed me a cup.  
>"Martin, do you have to read this type of thing in bed?" she asked, settling herself next to me.<p>

I pushed the offending journal out of her sight and said lightly, "Louisa, as a doctor's wife you'll have to get use to this kind of thing."

"I like the bit about being a doctor's wife," she answered, and leaned her head against my shoulder. I liked that very much as well, and was about to tell her so when she said, "I started making a list of family and friends that we should invite to our wedding and I was wondering if you want to ask Christina."

"What, to our wedding? Absolutely not!" I exclaimed, possibly a little too forcefully.

"Martin, she is your half-sister." Louisa paused and nervously bit her lower lip, "According to Ruth, she doesn't know that you know that you're.. brother and sister."

I suspected as much; when I spoke with Christina on the phone earlier today, she gave no indication that she knew me other then as Christopher and Margaret Ellingham's son. My father was obviously a great one for secrets, and he somehow managed to get Christina to go along with this ridiculous charade. At least I could set the record straight tomorrow; she was due on the morning train from London, and I agreed to take her to the Royal Cornwall to see Dad.

Louisa shook her head and said, "It's all very strange isn't it, suddenly finding out things are not as they seemed."

I heard a tremor in her voice, and could only assume she was referring to the situation with Terry Glasson and Dennis Fletcher. I put down my cup and pulled her close. "Look, I'm sorry about last night. I understand how upsetting this must be for you." I took a deep breath before continuing, "And you know I'm not very good at talking about these things."

It had cut me to the quick when she came to bed last night, her eyes puffy and red from crying herself sick over Terry Glasson's letter. Poor Louisa saddled with not one but two irresponsible fathers. After hearing Ruth's story, I could only conclude that this Dennis Fletcher was a tosser of the first order and was no different from Terry Glasson, a man who in my opinion had been a father to Louisa in name only. The only responsible person in this whole affair had been Angus Fletcher, who had seen fit to mitigate his brother's uncouth behavior by naming Louisa as the sole beneficiary of his estate.

I took the cup from her hands, tucked the duvet around her slight frame and gently rubbed her back until her breathing was soft and even. To my surprise, I quickly fell into a deep sleep, a welcome change from the tossing and turning of the past few nights.

James woke us at the break of dawn, wailing with hunger and in need of a nappy change. I fetched him from his cot, and changed his nappy before bringing him to Louisa for a feed. He latched on hungrily, and as I watched the woman I was soon to marry cradle my son, I felt sheltered for a moment from the demands of a world that seemed to have gone mad.

We ate breakfast and Louisa left shortly after for a meeting with the school superintendent. Christina was not due at Bodmin Parkway until 10 o'clock that morning, which gave me plenty of time to catch up on patient notes and call the hospital to get an update on my father's condition. He had apparently spent a comfortable night, and according to the ward sister, had been on his best behavior.

I would speak with his consultants while he visited with his daughter; the less contact I had with her, the better. I was relieved when she sent an email explaining she had booked a room at a posh hotel in Truro and would be returning to London by the next morning's train.

I took the back roads to the train station, driving through the rolling country side draped in the deep auburns and oranges of autumn. My trepidation at meeting Christina for the first time increased with every mile; I had yet to become accustom to the idea that this women existed, issued from my father but having lived her life unbeknownst to me, until now.

As reluctant as I was to meet her, my curiosity got the better of me and a few clicks on my laptop revealed she was three years my junior, born the year we moved from our London townhouse to a sprawling Edwardian manse in Surrey.

All these years later it all made sense to me- my mother must have found out about the child, and in a bid to safe guard her marriage, and more importantly her social standing, must have insisted that my father break it off with his operating theater nurse turned mistress. But moving out of London hadn't made a difference in the end; my parent's marriage fell apart, and I became part of the collateral damage along with their bank accounts and investment portfolios.

I saw the road widened ahead, and the low buildings of the train station came into view. I was early, the train from London wasn't due for another twenty minutes, but I was restless and couldn't sit in my car and wait. I nervously paced the platform, oblivious to the fine drizzle that had begun to fall, soaking through the thin fabric of my overcoat.

Finally the station master announced the ten o'clock from London. I watched the train pull into the station, its wheels screeched loudly as it came to a halt. The first class carriage was at the fore of the train, and I looked on as an elderly woman cautiously stepped down followed by a young man excitedly talking on his mobile.

I peered through the mist that had drifted in from the moor, but didn't see anyone else exit the train. I stood there, undecided as what to do next, when a tall, well-dressed woman confidently stepped onto the platform. She carried a small over-night case, and gracefully pulled it along-side her as she walked in my direction, her piercing blue eyes gazing at me with undisguised curiosity.

For a time, I had questioned my mother's story, and even continued to do so after finding the photo of Christina on the internet. But as she stood before me, I believed that only a fool would deny the family resemblance; the strong line of her jaw, the straight blonde hair sprinkled with gray, and her prominent cheek bones all spoke to a common ancestry.

I nervously cleared my throat and extended my hand. "Martin Ellingham. You must Ms. Wimmsley Evers." She firmly grasped my hand and said, "Please call me Christina. Shall we?" I offered to take her case, but she declined and we walked in silence to the parked car.

"How is he?" she asked bluntly, settling into the passenger seat and fastening her seat belt. I steered the car out of the station car park and answered, "He had a stroke that affected his speech and the right side of his body. It's early to say whether the deficits will be permanent. We'll know more in a few days."

"Well, this certainly won't help his memory. It's been slipping these past few years, but now he struggles to remember the names of my children on most days. That's why I panicked when he disappeared a few days ago, worried that he had got himself lost." She turned to me, her eyes troubled. "At times, he still thinks he's married to your mother. That's why he came all the way here, looking to take her home. But of course you know all this."

"Actually, I don't," I answered quietly. "I haven't had much contact with my parents in recent years."

"I see." She nervously toyed with the gold band on her left ring finger and said, "Look, there's something you must know…"

I interrupted her. "I already know. My mother told me, and even if she hadn't I would have figured it out, once I met you."

She smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry, Martin. This isn't the way I wanted you to find out. But my father," she turned those familiar blue eyes towards me, "our father, didn't want you to know. He thought it would upset you, and as his memory waned he became more adamant about keeping my existence a secret from you."

I almost snorted in derision at the thought that my father would wish to spare my feelings.

Christina, unaware of the distress this conversation was causing me, continued to speak. "I followed your career, read the papers you published in medical journals. Then you dropped off the face of the earth. I wasn't on good terms with Dad then, and it wasn't until later that I found out you had re-trained as a GP and moved to Cornwall."

I silently gripped the steering wheel, unsure what to say to this woman who knew so much about me, whilst I knew nothing about her except for what I had read on the internet. I wondered what my father had told her, but I suspected it wasn't too flattering- it wouldn't surprise me if he regaled her with tales of my childhood bed wetting and my fear of small, dark places.

I left the Lexus in the physician car park and we hurried through the falling rain into the hospital lobby. We took the stairs to the medical ward and I lead the way to Dad's bed. He was sitting in a standard hospital issued reclining chair and someone had draped a thin blanket over his knees. He stared idly out the window, and his eyes appeared dull and lifeless, a look I had often seen in patients suffering from dementia.

With a pang, I realized that he had aged a great deal since our last meeting two years ago. Christina gave me a weak smile and slowly walked to him. "Dad?" she said, and he turned at the sound of her voice, his eyes now bright with pleasure at the sight of her.

He exclaimed with a slight slur, "Chrissie! You came to see your old dad. Give me a hug." I watched my father hold his illegitimate daughter, whilst his son stood unacknowledged, a few paces away. I knew my thoughts were petty and childish, but I couldn't help it.

Christina pulled away from Christopher's embrace, and said to him, "Martin is here as well." She slipped her hand into the old man's weathered one and continued, "He knows, Dad. There's no need to keep it a secret any longer." My father gave me an uneasy look, and I stared at him impassively. I would not give him what I knew he wanted; forgiveness and the absolution of all responsibility in this sordid affair.

I turned on my heel and walked briskly across the room to the nurse's station. I could feel Christina's eyes boring into my back, but I didn't care. She was welcome to him. I would do my duty as his son, but they were to expect nothing more from me.

The station was empty, except for a nursing student filing patient charts. I impatiently glanced around for a registrar or consultant, and when I didn't see one, turned to her and snapped, "Find my father's neurology consultant." The sooner I knew dad's prognosis, the faster I could make arrangements to get him back to London, where he belonged.

The hapless student jumped to her feet and stammered, "I'll see what I can do." She was about to scurry off when someone said sharply, "I'll thank you as to not speak to my nurses in such a manner, Dr. Ellingham."

I looked over my shoulder, ready to lambast whoever had dared to address me in this way. The words died on my lips as I recognized the nurse who had cared for Louisa when James was born and most recently, attended the young man with the ruptured spleen that Adrian Pitts had almost dispatched with his gross incompetence. She wore the uniform of a first level charge nurse, and held a bag of blood attached to a length of clear intravenous tubing.

"I'm Nurse Kathy O'Neil, in case you don't remember." I nodded mutely, keeping my gaze averted from the contents of the bag she held in her hand.

"The consultant is attending to an emergency. I'll let him know you're looking to speak with him." She whirled around and walked quickly to the other side of the ward, the student trotting at her heels.

I took a few deep breaths, and swallowed hard in an attempt to keep my breakfast down where it belonged. The panic attacks had become less frequent, but they tended to surface when I was under stress, and honestly the last few days had been nothing but stressful.

I was still trying to calm myself when Christina appeared at my elbow, mobile in hand.

"I just received a call from the solicitor working on your mother's case," she said, stowing the phone in her handbag. "I'm happy to say that the extradition proceedings have been dropped by the court."

At last, there was one less thing for me to worry about; my mother could get on with her life, and I with mine. I was about to thank Christina when she put up her hand and said, "She's not out of the woods yet, Martin. The Crown is still investigating her for funneling funds to a terrorist organization in East Timor." She stopped and looked at me expectantly. "I am happy to continue to act as her barrister, if this is what you wish."

"Yes, that would be good," I answered, deflated by the news that my mother's, and by proxy, my ordeal wasn't over yet.

"Your mother will be released tomorrow, from Holloway prison in London. I can stay here," she paused, "with Dad, while you fetch your mother. She will be released into your care and her passport confiscated until after her court date, which won't be for a few weeks. She's not a particularly great flight risk, but the Crown is not taking any chances."

That's unfortunate, I thought, closing my eyes. At that moment, there was nothing I would have liked more then to put my mother on a one way flight out of Heathrow.


	19. Chapter 19

**The Visitor**

**by**

**Portwenn Hydra**

**Authors' Note: Doc Martin and all of its characters, themes and plotlines are the property of Buffalo Pictures. This work of fiction is written for purely entertainment purposes and no infringement of legal rights is intended.**

**Chapter Nineteen**

_Two Months Later in Early July_

London was in the throes of an unprecedented heat wave and the blanket of hot, sticky air stifling us was just another reason I didn't want to be here. It had been only a short walk from Ruth's flat where we were staying, but already I felt overly warm and sweaty. I ran my finger inside my collar, hoping for a bit of relief, and then straightened my tie.

James Henry squirmed in my grasp. He looked cross, and noting his flushed cheeks and the perspiration that plastered his fair hair to his head, I realized he was just as uncomfortable as I was. I took a deep breath, rang the bell, and then looked over at Louisa. I was immensely grateful to have her beside me, and in awe that she somehow managed to look fresh and cool in all this heat. I was relieved to notice that the healthy glow had returned to her face now that her vitamin B1 deficiency had been sorted. I found her smile reassuring, but I still couldn't help but wonder how I had allowed myself to be talked into this. I took her hand in my free one, noticing how cool the band of her engagement ring, the one I had presented on her thirty-eighth birthday, felt against our warm fingers.

After a moment, the door opened part way. Though I generally abhor air conditioning, today I was grateful for the refrigerated air that poured forth, engulfing us. A small girl with blonde curly hair and a pink sundress stood there, looking us over critically.

"Are you here for Grandad's party, then?" she asked, finally.

"Er, yes . . . I suppose so . . ." It seemed so odd to hear my father referred to that way.

Still blocking the entrance to the house, she twirled her skirt around and put her thumb in her mouth. I couldn't help but frown with disgust at the thought of the germs she might be introducing to her body with that nasty habit.

"Is that your baby?" she asked, pointing at James Henry.

I rolled my eyes. Whose baby would we have but ours? What a ridiculous question!

Louisa leaned down to the little girl and looked her in the eyes with a friendly smile. "Yes, this is our baby. He's called James Henry. What's your name?"

"I'm Miranda. Your baby looks an awful lot like our baby," she said, dubiously. "He's called Tarquin. He had his birthday on Tuesday."

Just then I heard the click of high heels on the wooden floor, and the door opened wider. "Miranda! Don't block the door like that! You're meant to be letting them in the house."

Christina came into view behind her daughter. "Martin! Louisa! Thank you so much for coming. You don't know how much Dad has been looking forward to this. It means a lot that you came." She scooted the girl out of the way. "And this is your son! He's the spitting image of you, Martin." Her enthusiasm was overwhelming.

Louisa looked at me, took a deep breath, and then embraced my half-sister. "Christina. Thank you for inviting us." She allowed herself to be drawn into the house and I had no choice but to follow, with James Henry perched in the crook of my elbow, burying his face in my lapels.

The house was an old one that had been tastefully updated. As Christina led us along a corridor hung with lively watercolors, we could hear the unmistakable sounds of people socializing. We entered a spacious and comfortable sitting room filled with guests just as the doorbell rang again and Christina excused herself to go and look after the new arrivals.

My father was holding court as the guest of honor in a chair in front of a window overlooking the garden. He looked old and frail, though much improved from his appearance immediately after his stroke. If you looked carefully, you could see that the features on the left side of his face sagged slightly and his left hand trembled. I presumed this was from the stroke and not the champagne he was drinking.

My mother was beside him, another change from the last time I had seen him. She looked the same as always, elegantly dressed and as imperious as ever. I did notice she had her hand on Dad's shoulder as she sat on the arm of his chair. This was an old pose, one I remembered from my childhood and hadn't expected to see ever again.

"Marty!" called Dad as he motioned us to come over. Mother said nothing. She'd been subdued even for her since her imprisonment. She looked at us impassively, and I recalled with dismay her silence during her brief and unhappy visit to Portwenn five years ago. I swallowed hard and then squeezed Louisa's hand to reassure her as well as myself as we approached my parents.

I hadn't wanted to come to this blasted birthday party and had sent my regrets on more than one occasion. It had been cancelled once because of Dad's health and I had hoped that would be the end of the subject. But Christina had been persistent and in the end, at Louisa's urging, I had agreed to come, for Christina's sake more than my father's. She had turned out to be godsend, to me as well as to both of my parents, and I felt I owed her something in the way of thanks.

My sister had lived up to her reputation as a barrister. She'd not only managed to keep my mother from being extradited to Portugal, she had brokered a deal for a lesser sentence on the money laundering charges in exchange for Mum's testimony against Armando da Silva and his gang. After Christina pleaded extenuating circumstances, based on mental and physical illness and Mum's age, the judge ultimately had imposed a community sentence requiring 100 hours of payback work and supervision by an offender manager for one year. It was the happiest possible outcome I could have imagined for that unholy mess. It seemed the whole "Portuguese Incident" was now nearly behind us.

Christina had also been invaluable in getting Dad settled back in the flat in Chelsea after his stroke and arranging for visiting nurses, physio, and other treatments. While I followed his medical care closely and communicated with his physicians on a regular basis, she was the one on site dealing with the day to day issues. And despite the nature of her relationship with my father, she hadn't batted an eyelash when Mum had declared her intent to leave Portwenn to join Dad in London and share the Chelsea flat with him a week after her release from prison.

Not having grown up with a sibling, it was a revelation how the existence of a person who shared at least some of my DNA could change my life. I now wondered how on Earth I would have managed if Christina had not been there to step in and help me untangle the muddle my parents' lives had become. The burden of being responsible for two people I had come to thoroughly dislike had lightened considerably and for that reason I found myself in this room, facing my parents with Louisa and James Henry in tow.

"So this is the little nipper, eh Marty?" Dad asked, with a glint in his eyes. "I never had the chance to meet the tyke when I was in Cornwall."

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that were it up to me, he wouldn't have ever seen my son. Instead I simply nodded. "He's called James Henry."

"After your grandfather?" Dad seemed to tear up a bit.

I knew that personality changes and becoming more emotional were not uncommon after a stroke but it still surprised me, seeing it in my own father. "Yes, after Louisa's grandfather and mine." I had confirmed with Louisa that James was the name of Eleanor's father, not Terry's, relieved to know our son's name honored an actual ancestor of his. With all the revelations in the last month, Louisa and I almost needed a notebook to keep track of our respective families.

My mother said nothing, but she reached out a hand to stroke James Henry's cheek. He gave her a solemn look but didn't otherwise object.

"I take it you have met our grandson before, eh, Margaret? Never thought I'd be saying that." He turned to address Louisa, kissing her hand and giving her a look that made me feel fiercely protective. "So he finally got up the nerve, did he? I'll bet he was your doctor first, am I right? I always said he'd have to drug a woman to get her to stay with him." He gave her a lecherous wink.

I could almost hear Louisa's hackles rising. "Dad, that's quite enough," I chided, well aware of the fact that my ears were red and my cheeks were likely pinking up as well.

Dad shrugged, a little smirk on his face. "Well at least we know you've got it in you, Marty. Look at that little lad – the spitting image of you at that age! Arrived a little ahead of schedule, if you know what I mean, but I guess I am not one to talk on that count." It startled me to realize that Dad was comparing James Henry's out of wedlock birth to Christina's situation. As far as I was concerned, the one had nothing to do with the other, but it did give me pause that in his mind they were similar.

Christina re-entered the room carrying a baby roughly the same age as James Henry on one hip and shepherding Miranda and another small boy, I supposed he was Miranda's twin brother, David, with the other hand. She smiled at Dad and brought the children over.

"Children, this is your Uncle Martin and your Auntie Louisa. And their son is your cousin, James. Martin, you've met Miranda and these two are David and Tarquin."

Miranda was right. Tarquin and James looked like the twins in this picture – it was eerie how much they resembled each other, and how much more Tarquin resembled James than he did either of his siblings. I wondered if Christina's husband bore any likeness to Louisa. Genetics can be a powerful force.

Before we could make any further introductions, my father rose shakily from his chair, leaning on Mum's arm. "My dear friends. Thank you so much for joining us. I am delighted to see you all here and grateful to Christina and Rupert for throwing the party." There was a smattering of polite applause.

Dad raised his glass of champagne and continued. "Today I am a happy man. Happy to have had my health restored to me. Happy to be sharing this day with my family and with all of you. I have had the opportunity during my recent recuperation to take stock of my life. I haven't always valued what I had. Nearly losing it all made me realize what I was missing. So today with all of you as my witnesses, in the presence of our son, Martin, and my daughter Christina, I would like to ask you, my beloved Margaret, will you marry me again?"

I was stunned. I looked from Dad's questioning face to Mum's glistening eyes, from Louisa's astonished look, to Christina's amused smile and then back at Dad. At that moment, I heard the crash of glass as Dad dropped his champagne flute. Mum scrambled to pick up the shattered pieces and then cried out in surprise. As she held up her hand, dripping with blood, I succumbed to the overwhelming sense of panic that had been brewing in the back of my mind all day. It flooded over me like an immense tidal wave until all I could see was the dripping blood; all I could sense was the smell I associated with surgery, operating theaters and despair. Before I could do anything to regain my composure, my field of vision contracted to a single point of light which then went black as I tumbled into unconsciousness.

Once again it was raining dead seagulls.

X

_Early September_

The day after our wedding, we took the car ferry from Penzance to St. Mary's and followed Clive Carson's hand drawn map to the bungalow at the top of the bluff beside the lighthouse. Neither of us had known what to expect – the only things Louisa had received before we left were the map, a key and an exterior photo of the house. She had been enchanted. I had tried to warn her that we might find dry rot, vermin infestations or heaven knows what else but she had remained undeterred. For our honeymoon we would travel to Scilly and stay in the home her uncle had left her, and she wouldn't hear of any other suggestions.

I had to admit that the views were spectacular. Up here on the bluff we were at the highest point on the island, with the cliffs rolling down to the sea in one direction and an overgrown cottage garden between the cottage and the lighthouse. In the late afternoon sun, everything seemed to shimmer.

"Oh, Martin, isn't it wonderful?" she exclaimed.

"Well, let's wait and see what we find inside." I was reserving judgment. After all the surprises this summer, I had given up trying to predict the outcome of any non-medical situation.

She chuckled and took my hand, and I felt her fingers brush against my wedding ring, an unfamiliar but pleasant feeling. "Lead on, Mac Duff," I ordered and she dragged me along to the front door, bubbling with excitement.

The key turned easily in the lock and the door swung open revealing a spacious sitting room with a wall of windows facing the sea. I heard Louisa's sharp intake of breath and I knew that she was pleased.

"Oh, Martin!" She looked up at me with a smile of such warmth and love it overwhelmed me. She threw her arms around my neck and kissed me soundly and I knew that no matter what, there was no place in the world I wanted to be than where this woman was, wherever that might be. I scooped her into my arms and carried her across the threshold, taking no small pleasure in this bit of romantic foolishness.

As I returned her kiss enthusiastically, I realized that for the first time in a very long time, maybe ever, we were completely alone. James was safe and sound under Amanda's watchful care at home in Portwenn. There were no patients, no students, no annoying neighbors, displaced family members, nosy receptionists or unexpected visitors to disturb us. No one on the island had any idea who we were, and no one we knew could drop in uninvited. It was just the two of us with a week to spend getting used to the idea of being husband and wife.

I broke the kiss reluctantly. "Well, Mrs. Ellingham, what do you want to do first?" I asked, suddenly feeling shy.

"I like the sound of that."

"The sound of what?"

"Mrs. Ellingham."

"You do? I wasn't sure . . ." We hadn't discussed whether she would change her name but I had hoped.

"Shh, Martin," she whispered. "Being your wife is exactly who I want to be."

"Really? And I thought you just married me to get your inheritance . . ." I was surprised to find myself joking about this.

She swatted me and laughed some more and I smiled. I somehow couldn't help myself when I was with her.

We took our time inspecting the various rooms, relieved to find that Clive Carson had made good on his promise to send in a cleaner before we arrived. It was a compact little house, tidy and uncluttered. Louisa was delighted with the stone fireplace, the cozy armchairs, the café table on the porch and the sundrenched bedroom. I was delighted with Louisa.

After a while, I brought in our belongings from the car. While I unpacked the box of groceries we'd picked up in the village, Louisa took her case to the bedroom to unpack. I removed my jacket and tie and rolled back my cuffs before donning an apron and putting together a simple marinade for the fish and a dressing for the salad. I laid the table on the porch for two using the cutlery and table mats I found in the kitchen dresser. As an afterthought, I added a couple of candles in little glass jars; the days were getting shorter and we would likely see the sunset before our meal was finished.

When I returned to the kitchen, I found Louisa nonchalantly opening a bottle of wine. My mouth went dry at the sight. She was dressed in the red satin tart's costume she had hired for the Parsons' ridiculous anniversary party and she looked positively gorgeous.

I put my hands on her shoulders. "Where did this come from? I thought you only hired it for the party?"

She chuckled. "Well given your reaction the two times I wore it before, I decided it might be a good idea to keep it around for special occasions. So instead of returning it, I bought it for myself."

"You did?" I could feel my eyes widen.

"So you DO like it, hmm?"

I was blushing. I buried my face in her hair and muttered, "Very much." My hands moved lower to her lovely bottom, clad in the racy red ruffles. She moved in my arms and once again I felt how perfectly we fit together.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and lifted her head to nuzzle my neck. As she did so, she whispered into my ear. "Here we go, through the snow. . ."

". . . comrades, forever," I finished.

And I knew that we would be.

THE END

X X XX X

Authors' Notes

Thank you, dear readers, for sticking with us through what has been a remarkable and entertaining experience for the six of us. We have enjoyed writing this, spurring each other on with challenges, prompts, and outlandish cliff hangers and plot twists. And no one got hurt. We are grateful for the time you took to read, for your encouraging reviews, and for your support of our individual work as well as for this project which gave us the confidence to proceed.

Each of us would like to thank the rest of the team for participating in this experiment. It has been an honor and a pleasure to get to know each other and work together on this project. If two heads are better than one, then the six heads of the Hydra have come up with a whole that is so much more than the sum of its parts.

We would be remiss if we did not also thank Buffalo Pictures for creating this television programme with which we have all become obsessed, the remarkable Martin Clunes and Caroline Catz for bringing it to life and, perhaps most of all, the amazing Claire Bloom whose brief portrayal of Margaret Ellingham in series two made such an impression on all of us as to inspire this story.

So for those of you who are wondering who the heck Portwenn Hydra could be, we are, in alphabetical order:

Boots1980

ggo85

GriffinStar

jd517

robspace54

Snowsie2011


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